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COLLECTED  POEMS 


7>../-_ 


U 


COLLECTED  POEMS 


1901-1918 


BY 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 


IN  T\^0  VOLUMES 
VOL.  I 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1920 


Copyright,  1920 

BY 

Henry  Holt  and  Company 


99 


CONTENTS 


POEMS:    1906 
Lyrical  Poems  —  pact 

Shadow 5 

Unregarding 6 

They  Told  Me 7 

Sorcery      8 

The  Children  of  Stare 10 

Age 12 

The  Glimpse 14 

Remembrance 16 

Treachery 17 

In  Vain 18 

The  Miracle 19 

Keep  Innocency 21 

The  Phantom 23 

Voices 25 

Thule 26 

The  Birthnicht:  to  F 27 

The  Death-Dream 28 

"Where  Is  Thy  Victory?"      ....  29 

Foreboding 31 

Vain  Finding 33 

Napoleon 34 

England 35 

Truce 36 

Evening 37 

Night 39 

The  Universe 40 


CONTENTS 

FAGl 

Gloria  Mundi 41 

Idleness 43 

GOLLiTH 45 

Characters  from  Shakespeare  — 

Falstaff 49 

Macbeth 51 

Banquo 52 

Mercutio 53 

Juliet's  Nurse 54 

Iago 56 

Imogen 58 

Polonius 59 

Ophelia 60 

Hamlet 61 

Sonnets  — 

The  Happy  Encounter 65 

April 66 

Sea-Magic 67 

The  Market-Place 68 

Anatomy 69 

Even  in  the  Grave 70 

Bright  Life 71 

Humanity 72 

Virtue 73 

Memories  of  Childhood  — 

Reverie 77 

The  Massacre 78 

Echo 80 

Fear 81 

The  Mermaids 83 

vi 


CONTENTS 

VAGB 

Myself 84 

Autumn 85 

Winter 86 

Envoi:   To  My  Mother 91 


THE  LISTENERS:    1914 

The  Three  Cherry  Trees 95 

Old  Susan 96 

Old  Ben 97 

Miss  Loo 99 

The  Tailor 101 

Martha 102 

The  Sleeper .  104 

The  Keys  of  Morning 106 

Rachel 108 

Alone 109 

The  Bells HI 

The  Scarecrow 112 

Nod 113 

The  Bindweed 114 

Winter 115 

There  Blooms  No  Bud  in  May      .     .     .     .116 

Noon  and  Night  Flower 117 

Estranged 118 

The  Tired  Cupid 119 

Dreams 120 

Faithless 121 

The  Shade 122 

Be  Angry  Now  No  More 123 

Exile 124 

Where? 125 

Music  Unheard 126 

All  That's  Past 128 

When  the  Rose  Is  Faded 130 

vji 


CONTENTS 

PACE 

Sleep 131 

The  Stranger 132 

Never  More  Sailor       . 133 

Arabia 135 

The  Montains 136 

Queen  Djenira 137 

Never-to-Be        138 

The  Dark  Chateau 140 

The  Dwelling-Place 142 

The  Listeners ,     .     .     .   144 

Time  Passes        146 

Beware! 148 

The  Journey 149 

Haunted 153 

Silence 155 

Winter  Dusk 157 

The  Ghost 159 

An  Epitaph         160 

"  The  Hawthorn  Hath  a  Deathly  Smell  "  161 


MOTLEY:     1919 

The  Little  Salamander 165 

The  Linnet 166 

The  Sunken  Garden 167 

The  Riddlers 168 

Moonlight 170 

The  Blind  Boy 171 

The  Quarry 172 

Mrs.  Grundy 173 

The  Tryst 175 

Alone 177 

The  Empty  House 178 

Mistress  Fell 180 

The  Ghost         182 

viii 


CONTENTS 

PACE 

The  Stranger 183 

Betrayal 184 

The  Cage 185 

The  Revenant 186 

Music 188 

The  Remonstrance 189 

Nocturne 191 

The  Exile 192 

The  Unchanging 193 

Invocation 194 

Eyes         195 

Life 196 

The  Disguise 197 

Vain  Questioning 199 

Vigil        200 

The  Old  Men 201 

The  Dreamer 202 

Motley 203 

The  Marionettes 206 

To  E.  T.  :  1917 208 

April  Moon 209 

The  Fool's  Song 210 

Clear  Eyes 211 

Dust  to  Dust 212 

The  Three  Strangers 213 

Alexander 214 

The  Reawakening 216 

The  Vacant  Day 217 

The  Flight 218 

For  All  the  Grief 219 

The  Scribe 220 

Fare  Well 222 


POEMS:  1906 
TO  HENRY  NEWBOLT 


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LYRIC.\L  POEMS 


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SHADOW 

JLiVEN  the  beauty  of  the  rose  doth  cast, 

Wlien  its  bright,  fervid  noon  is  past, 

A  still  and  lengthening  shadow  in  the  dust, 

Till  darkness  come 

And  take  its  strange  dream  home. 

The  transient  bubbles  of  the  water  paint 
'Neath  their  frail  arch  a  shadow  faint; 
The  golden  nimbus  of  tlie  windowed  saint, 
Till  shine  the  stars, 
Casts  pale  and  trembling  bars. 

The  loveliest  thing  earth  hath,  a  shadow  hath, 
A  dark  and  livelong  hint  of  death, 
Haunting  it  ever  till  its  last  faint  breath. 

Who,  then,  may  tell 
The  beauty  of  heaven's  shadowless  asphodel? 


UNREGARDING 

1  UT  by  thy  days  like  withered  flowers 

In  twilight  hidden  away: 
Memory  shall  upbuild  thee  bowers 

Sweeter  than  they. 

Hoard  not  from  swiftness  of  thy  stream 
The  shallowest  cruse  of  tears: 

Pools  still  as  heaven  shall  lovelier  dream 
In  future  years. 

Squander  thy  love  as  she  that  flings 

Her  soul  away  on  night; 
Lovely  are  love's  far  echoings, 

Height  imto  height. 

0,  make  no  compact  with  the  sun, 
No  compact  with  the  moon! 

Night  falls  full-cloaked,  and  light  is  gone 
Sudden  and  soon. 


THEY  TOLD  ME 

1  HEY  told  me  Pan  was  dead,  but  I 
Oft  marvelled  who  it  was  that  sang 

Down  the  green  valleys  languidly 
Where  the  grey  elder-thickets  hang. 

Sometimes  I  thought  it  was  a  bird 
My  soul  had  charged  with  sorcery; 

Sometimes  it  seemed  my  own  heart  heard 
Inland  the  sorrow  of  the  sea. 

But  even  where  the  primrose  sets 
The  seal  of  her  pale  loveliness, 

I  found  amid  the  violets 

Tears  of  an  antique  bitterness. 


SORCERY 

W  HAT  voice  is  that  I  hear 

Crying  across  the  pool?  " 
"  It  is  the  voice  of  Pan  you  hear, 
Crying  his  sorceries  shrill  and  clear, 

In  the  twilight  dim  and  cool." 

"  What  song  is  it  he  sings, 

Echoing  from  afar; 
While  the  sweet  swallow  bends  her  wings. 
Filling  the  air  with  twitterings, 

Beneath  the  brightening  star?" 

The  woodman  answered  me, 

His  faggot  on  his  back :  — 
"  Seek  not  the  face  of  Pan  to  see; 
Flee  from  his  clear  note  summoning  thee 

To  darkness  deep  and  black!  " 

"  He  dwells  in  thickest  shade. 

Piping  his  notes  forlorn 
Of  sorrow  never  to  be  allayed; 
Turn  from  his  coverts  sad 

Of  twilight  unto  morn!  " 


SORCERY 

The  woodman  passed  away 

Along  the  fore?-l  i)alh; 
His  ax  shone  keen  and  grey 
In  the  last  beams  of  day: 

And  all  was  still  as  death:  — 

Only  Pan  singing  sweet 

Out  of  Earth's  fragrant  shade; 
I  dreamed  his  eyes  to  meet, 
And  found  but  shadow  laid 

Before  my  tired  feet. 

Comes  no  more  dawn  to  me, 

Nor  bird  of  open  skies. 
Only  his  woods'  deep  gloom  I  see 

Till,  at  the  end  of  all,  shall  rise. 
Afar  and  tranquilly, 
Death's  stretching  sea. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  STARE    X 

Winter  is  fallen  early 
On  the  house  of  Stare; 
Birds  in  reverberating  flocks 
Haunt  its  ancestral  box; 
Bright  are  the  plenteous  berries 
In  clusters  in  the  air. 

Still  is  the  fountain's  music. 
The  dark  pool  icy  still, 
Whereupon  a  small  and  sanguine  sun 
Floats  in  a  mirror  on. 
Into  a  West  of  crimson, 
From  a  South  of  daffodil. 

'Tis  strange  to  see  young  children 
In  such  a  wintry  house; 
Like  rabbits'  on  the  frozen  snow 
Their  tell-tale  footprints  go; 
Their  laughter  rings  like  timbrels 
'Neath  evening  ominous: 

Their  small  and  heightened  faces 
Like  wine-red  winter  buds; 

10 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  STARE 

Their  frolic  bodies  gentle  as 
Flakes  in  the  air  that  pass, 
Frail  as  the  twirling  petal 
From  the  briar  of  the  woods. 

Above  them  silence  lours. 
Still  as  an  arctic  sea; 
Light  fails;  night  falls;  the  wintry  moon 
Glitters;  the  crocus  soon 
Will  ope  grey  and  distracted 
On  earth's  austerity: 

Tliick  mystery,  wild  peril. 
Law  like  an  iron  rod:  — 
Yet  sport  they  on  in  Spring's  attire, 
Each  with  his  tiny  fire 
Blown  to  a  core  of  ardour 
By  the  awful  breath  of  God. 


11 


AGE 

1  HIS  ugly  old  crone  — 
Every  beauty  she  had 
When  a  maid,  when  a  maid. 
Her  beautiful  eyes, 
Too  youthful,  too  wise, 
Seemed  ever  to  come 
To  so  lightless  a  home, 
Cold  and  dull  as  a  stone. 
And  her  cheeks  —  who  would  guess 
Cheeks  cadaverous  as  this 
Once  with  colours  were  gay 
As  the  flower  on  its  spray? 
Who  would  ever  believe 
Aught  could  bring  one  to  grieve 
So  much  as  to  make 
Lips  bent  for  love's  sake 
So  thin  and  so  grey? 
0  Youth,  come  away! 
As  she  asks  in  her  lone, 
This  old,  desolate  crone. 
She  loves  us  no  more; 
She  is  too  old  to  care 
For  the  charms  that  of  yore 
Made  her  body  so  fair. 
12 


AGE 

Past  repining,  past  care. 
She  lives  but  to  bear 
One  or  two  fleeting  years 
Earth's  indiflerence:  her  tears 
Have  lost  now  their  heat; 
Her  hands  and  her  feet 
Now  shake  but  to  be 
Shed  as  leaves  from  a  tree; 
And  her  poor  heart  beats  on 
Like  a  sea  —  tlie  storm  gone. 


13 


THE  GLIMPSE  / 

Art  thou  asleep?  or  have  thy  wings 
Wearied  of  my  unchanging  skies? 
Or,  haply,  is  it  fading  dreams 
Are  in  my  eyes? 

Not  even  an  echo  in  my  heart 
Tells  me  the  courts  thy  feet  trod  last. 
Bare  as  a  leafless  wood  it  is. 
The  summer  past. 

My  inmost  mind  is  like  a  book 
The  reader  dulls  with  lassitude, 
Wherein  the  same  old  lovely  words 
Sound  poor  and  rude. 

Yet  through  this  vapid  surface,  I 
Seem  to  see  old-time  deeps;  I  see, 
Past  the  dark  painting  of  the  hour, 
Life's  ecstasy. 

Only  a  moment;  as  when  day 
Is  set,  and  in  the  shade  of  night, 
Through  all  the  clouds  that  compassed  her, 
Stoops  into  sight 
14 


THE  GLIMPSE 


Pale,  changeless,  everlasting  Dian, 
Gleams  on  the  prone  Endymion, 
Troubles  the  dulness  of  his  dreams: 
And  then  is  gone. 


15 


REMEMBRANCE 

1  HE  sky  was  like  a  waterdrop 

In  shadow  of  a  thorn, 
Clear,  tranquil,  beautiful, 

Dark,  forlorn. 

Lightning  along  its  margin  ran; 

A  rumour  of  the  sea 
Rose  in  profundity  and  sank 

Into  infinity. 

Lofty  and  few  the  elms,  the  stars 
In  the  vast  boughs  most  bright; 

I  stood  a  dreamer  in  a  dream 
In  the  unstirring  night. 

Not  wonder,  worship,  not  even  peace 
Seemed  in  my  heart  to  be: 

Only  the  memory  of  one, 
Of  all  most  dead  to  me. 


16 


TREACHERY 

OlIE  had  amid  her  ringlets  bo.und 
Green  leaves  to  rival  their  dark  hue; 
How  could  such  locks  with  beauty  bound 
Dry  up  their  dew, 
Wither  them  through  and  through? 

She  had  within  her  dark  eyes  lit 
Sweet  fires  to  burn  all  doubt  away; 
Yet  did  those  fires,  in  darkness  lit, 
Burn  but  a  day, 
Not  even  till  twilight  stay. 

She  had  within  a  dusk  of  words 
A  vow  in  simple  splendour  set; 
How,  in  the  memory  of  such  words, 
Could  she  forget 
That  vow  —  tlie  soul  of  it? 


17 


IN  VAIN 

I  KNOCKED  upon  thy  door  ajar, 
While  yet  the  woods  with  buds  were  grey; 
Nought  but  a  little  child  I  heard 
Warbling  at  break  of  day. 

I  knocked  when  June  had  lured  her  rose 
To  mask  the  sharpness  of  its  thorn; 
Knocked  yet  again,  heard  only  yet 
Thee  singing  of  the  morn. 

The  frail  convolvulus  had  wreathed 
Its  cup,  but  the  faint  flush  of  eve 
Lingered  upon  thy  Western  wall; 
Thou  hadst  no  word  to  give. 

Once  yet  I  came;  the  winter  stars 
Above  thy  house  wheeled  wildly  bright; 
Footsore  I  stood  before  thy  door  — 
Wide  open  into  night. 


18 


THE  MIRACLE 

W  HO  beckons  the  green  ivy  up 

Its  solitary  tower  of  stone? 
What  spirit  lures  the  bindweed's  cup 

Unfaltering  on? 
Calls  even  the  starry  lichen  to  climb 
By  agelong  inches  endless  Time? 

Who  bids  the  hollyhock  uplift 

Her  rod  of  fast-sealed  buds  on  high; 
Fling  wide  her  petals  —  silent,  swift, 

Lovely  to  the  sky? 
Since  as  she  kindled,  so  she  will  fade. 
Flower  above  flower  in  squalor  laid. 

Ever  the  heavy  billow  rears 

All  its  sea-length  in  green,  hushed  wall; 
But  totters  as  the  shore  it  nears. 

Foams  to  its  fall; 
Where  was  its  mark?  on  what  vain  quest 
Rose  that  great  water  from  its  rest? 

So  creeps  ambition  on;  so  climb 

Man's  vaunting  thoughts.     He,  set  on  high» 
Forgets  his  birth,  small  space,  brief  time, 
That  he  shall  die; 
19 


LYRICAL  POEMS 

Dreams  blindly  in  his  dark,  still  air; 
Consumes  his  strength;  strips  himself  bare; 

Rejects  delight,  ease,  pleasure,  hope, 

Seeking  in  vain,  but  seeking  yet, 
Past  earthly  promise,  earthly  scope, 

On  one  aim  set: 
As  if,  like  Chaucer's  child,  he  thought 
All  but  "0  Alma!  "nought. 


20 


KEEP  INNOCENCY 

LjIKE  an  old  battle,  youth  is  wild 
With  bugle  and  spear,  and  counter  cry, 
Fanfare  and  drummery,  yet  a  child 
Dreaming  of  that  sweet  chivalry, 
The  piercing  terror  cannot  see. 

He,  with  a  mild  and  serious  eye 
Along  the  azure  of  the  years, 
Sees  the  sweet  pomp  sweep  hurtling  by; 
But  he  sees  not  death's  blood  and  tears, 
Sees  not  the  plunging  of  the  spears. 

And  all  the  strident  horror  of 

Horse  and  rider,  in  red  defeat, 

Is  only  music  fine  enough 

To  lull  him  into  slmnber  sweet 

In  fields  where  ewe  and  lambkin  bleat. 

0,  if  with  such  simplicity 
Himself  take  arms  and  sufTer  war; 
With  beams  his  targe  shall  gilded  be, 
Though  in  the  thickening  gloom  be  far 
The  steadfast  light  of  any  star! 


21 


LYRICAL  POEMS 

Though  hoarse  War's  eagle  on  him  perch, 
Quickened  with  guilty  lightnings  —  there 
It  shall  in  vain  for  terror  search, 
Where  a  child's  eyes  beneath  bloody  hair 
Gaze  purely  through  the  dingy  air. 

And  when  the  wheeling  rout  is  spent, 
Though  in  the  heaps  of  slain  he  lie; 
Or  lonely  in  his  last  content; 
Quenchless  shall  burn  in  secrecy 
The  flame  Death  knows  his  victors  by. 


22 


THE  PHANTOM 

VV  ILT  tliou  never  come  again. 
Beauteous  one? 

Yet  the  woods  are  green  and  dim. 
Yet  the  birds'  deluding  cry 
Echoes  in  the  hollow  sky, 
Yet  the  falling  waters  brim 
The  clear  pool  which  thou  wast  fain 
To  paint  thy  lovely  cheek  upon. 
Beauteous  one! 

I  may  see  the  thorny  rose 

Stir  and  wake 
The  dark  dewdrop  on  her  gold; 
But  thy  secret  will  she  keep 
Half-divulged  —  yet  all  untold. 
Since  a  child's  heart  woke  from  sleep. 

The  faltering  sunbeam  fades  and  goes; 
The  night-bird  whistles  in  tlie  brake; 

The  willows  quake; 
Utter  darkness  walls;  the  wind 

Sighs  no  more. 
Yet  it  seems  the  silence  yearns 
But  to  catch  thy  fleeting  foot; 
Yet  the  wandering  glowworm  burns 
23 


LYRICAL  POEMS 

Lest  her  lamp  should  light  thee  not  — 
Thee  ^vhom  I  shall  never  find; 
Though  thy  shadow  lean  before, 
Thou  thyself  return'st  no  more  — 
Never  more. 

All  the  world's  woods,  tree  o'er  tree. 

Come  to  nought. 
Birds,  flowers,  beasts,  how  transient  they. 
Angels  of  a  flying  day. 
Love  is  quenched ;  dreams  drown  in  sleep ; 
Ruin  nods  along  the  deep: 
Only  thou  immortally 

Haimtest  on 
This  poor  earth  in  Time's  flux  caught; 
Hauntest  on,  pursued,  unwon, 
Phantom  child  of  memory. 

Beauteous  one! 


24 


VOICES 

Who  is  it  calling  by  the  darkened  river 
Where  the  moss  lies  smooth  and  deep, 
And  the  dark  trees  lean  unmoving  arms, 

Silent  and  vague  in  sleep, 
And  the  bright-heeled  constellations  pass 

In  splendour  through  the  gloom; 
Who  is  it  calling  o'er  the  darkened  river 
In  music,  "Come!  "  ? 

Who  is  it  wandering  in  the  summer  meadows 
Where  tlie  children  stoop  and  play 

In  the  green  faint-scented  flowers,  spinning 
The  guileless  hours  away? 

Wlio  touches  their  bright  hair?  who  puts 
A  wind-shell  to  each  cheek. 

Whispering  betwixt  its  breathing  silences, 
"Seek!  seek!"? 

Who  is  it  watching  in  the  gathering  twilight 

Wlien  the  curfew  bird  hath  flown 
On  eager  wings,  from  song  to  silence, 

To  its  darkened  nest  alone? 
Who  takes  for  brightening  eyes  the  stars, 

For  locks  the  still  moonbeam, 
Sighs  through  the  dews  of  evening  peacefully 
Falling,  "Dream!  "? 
25 


I'HULE 

If  thou  art  sweet  as  they  are  sad 
Who  on  the  shores  of  Time's  salt  sea 

Watch  on  the  dim  horizon  fade 

Ships  bearing  love  to  night  and  thee; 

If  past  all  beacons  Hope  hath  lit 
In  the  dark  wanderings  of  the  deep 

They  who  unwilling  traverse  it 

Dream  not  till  dawn  unseal  their  sleep; 

Ah,  cease  not  in  thy  winds  to  mock 
Us,  who  yet  wake,  but  cannot  see 

Thy  distant  shores;  who  at  each  shock 
Of  the  waves'  onset  faint  for  thee! 


26 


THE  BIRTHNIGHT:  TO  F. 

Dearest,  it  was  a  night 

That  in  iU  darkness  rocked  Orion's  stars; 
A  sighing  wind  ran  faintly  white 
Along  the  willows,  and  the  cedar  boughs 
Laid  their  wide  hands  in  stealthy  peace  across 
The  starry  silence  of  their  antique  moss: 
No  sound  save  rushing  air 
Cold,  yet  all  sweet  with  Spring, 
And  in  thy  mother's  arms,  couched  weeping  there. 
Thou,  lovely  thing. 


27 


THE  DEATH-DREAM 

W  HO,    now,    put   dreams    into    thy    slumbering 

mind? 
Who,  with  bright  Fear's  lean  taper,  crossed  a  hand 
Athwart  its  beam,  and  stooping,  truth  maligned, 
Spake  so  thy  spirit  speech  should  understand, 
And  with  a  dread  "  He's  dead!  "  awaked  a  peal 
Of  frenzied  bells  along  the  vacant  ways 
Of  thy  poor  earthly  heart;  waked  thee  to  steal. 
Like  dawn  distraught  upon  unhappy  days. 
To  prove  nought,  nothing?     Was  it  Time's  large 

voice 
Out  of  the  inscrutable  future  whispered  so? 
Or  but  the  horror  of  a  little  noise 
Earth  wakes  at  dead  of  night?     Or  does  Love  know 
When  his  sweet  wings  weary  and  droop,  and  even 
In  sleep  cries  audibly  a  shrill  remorse? 
Or,  haply,  was  it  I  who  out  of  dream 
Stole  but  a  little  where  shadows  course. 
Called  back  to  thee  across  the  eternal  stream? 


28 


"WHERE  IS  THY  VICTORY?" 

None,  none  can  tell  where  I  shall  be 

When  the  unclean  earth  covers  me; 

Only  in  surety  if  thou  cry 

Where  my  perplexed  ashes  lie. 

Know,  'tis  but  death's  necessity 

That  keeps  my  tongue  from  answering  thee. 

Even  if  no  more  my  shadow  may 

Lean  for  a  moment  in  thy  day; 

No  more  the  whole  earth  lighten,  as  if. 

Thou  near,  it  had  nought  else  to  give: 

Surely  'tis  but  Heaven's  strategy 

To  prove  death  immortality. 

Yet  should  I  sleep  —  and  no  more  dream, 
Sad  would  the  last  awakening  seem. 
If  my  cold  heart,  with  love  once  hot, 
Had  thee  in  sleep  remembered  not: 
How  could  I  wake  to  find  that  I 
Had  slept  alone,  yet  easefully? 

Or  sliould  in  sleep  glad  visions  come: 
Sick,  in  an  alien  land,  for  home 
Would  be  my  eyes  in  their  bright  beam; 
29 


LYRICAL  POEMS 

Awake,  we  know  'tis  not  a  dream; 

Asleep,  some  devil  in  the  mind 

Might  truest  thoughts  with  false  enwind. 

Life  is  a  mockery  if  death 
Have  the  least  power  men  say  it  hath. 
As  to  a  hound  that  mewing  waits, 
Death  opens,  and  shuts  to,  his  gates; 
Else  even  dry  bones  might  rise  and  say,  — 
"  'Tis  ye  are  dead  and  laid  away." 

Innocent  children  out  of  nought 
Build  up  a  universe  of  thought. 
And  out  of  silence  fashion  Heaven: 
So,  dear,  is  this  poor  dying  even. 
Seeing  thou  shalt  be  touched,  heard,  seen. 
Better  than  when  dust  stood  between. 


30 


FOREBODING 

1  HOU  canst  not  see  him  standing  by  — 
Time  —  with  a  poppied  hand 
Stealing  thy  youth's  simplicity, 
Even  as  falls  unceasingly 
His  waning  sand. 

He  will  pluck  thy  childish  roses,  as 

Summer  from  her  bush 
Strips  all  the  loveliness  that  was; 
Even  to  the  silence  evening  has 

Thy  laughter  hush. 

Thy  locks  too  faint  for  earthly  gold. 

The  meekness  of  thine  eyes, 
He  will  darken  and  dim,  and  to  his  fold 
Drive,  'gainst  the  night,  thy  stainless,  old 
Innocencies; 

Thy  simple  words  confuse  and  mar. 

Thy  tenderest  thoughts  delude. 
Draw  a  long  cloud  athwart  thy  star, 
Still  with  loud  timbrels  heaven's  far 
Faint  interlude. 


31 


LYRICAL  POEMS 

Thou  canst  not  see;  I  see,  dearest; 

0,  then,  yet  patient  be. 
Though  love  refuse  thy  heart  all  rest, 
Though  even  love  wax  angry,  lest 

Love  should  lose  thee? 


32 


VAIN  FINDING 

JCjVER  before  my  face  there  went 

Betwixt  earth's  buds  and  me 
A  beauty  beyond  earth's  content, 

A  hope  —  half  memory: 
Till  in  the  woods  one  evening  — 

Ah!  eyes  as  dark  as  they, 
Fastened  on  mine  unwontedly, 

Grey,  and  dear  heart,  how  grey! 


33 


NAPOLEON 

"What  is  the  world,  0  soldiers? 

It  is  I: 

I,  this  incessant  snow, 

This  northern  sky; 
Soldiers,  this  solitude 

Through  which  we  go 
Is  I." 


34 


ENGLAND 

INo  lovelier  hills  than  thine  have  laid 

My  tired  thoughts  to  rest: 
No  peace  of  lovelier  valleys  made 

Like  peace  within  my  breast. 

Thine  are  the  woods  whereto  my  soul, 

Out  of  the  noontide  beam, 
Flees  for  a  refuge  green  and  cool 

And  tranquil  as  a  dream. 

Thy  breaking  seas  like  trumpets  peal; 

Thy  clouds  —  how  oft  have  I 
Watched  their  bright  towers  of  silence  steal 

Into  infinity! 

My  heart  within  me  faints  to  roam 
In  thought  even  far  from  thee: 

Thine  be  the  grave  whereto  I  come, 
And  thine  my  darkness  be. 


35 


TRUCE 

r  AR  inland  here  Death's  pinions  mocked  the  roar 

Of  English  seas; 
We  sleep  to  wake  no  more. 

Hushed,  and  at  ease; 
Till  sound  a  trump,  shore  on  to  echoing  shore, 
Rouse  from  a  peace,  unwonted  then  to  war, 

Us  and  our  enemies. 


36 


EVENING 

W  HEN  twilight  darkens,  and  one  by  one, 
The  sweet  birds  to  their  nests  have  gone; 
When  to  green  banks  the  glow-worms  bring 
Pale  lamps  to  brigliten  evening; 
Then  stirs  in  his  thick  sleep  the  owl 
Through  the  dewy  air  to  prowl. 

Hawking  the  meadows  swiftly  he  flits, 
While  the  small  mouse  atrembling  sits 
With  tiny  eye  of  fear  upcast 
Until  his  brooding  shape  be  past, 
Hiding  her  where  the  moonbeams  beat, 
Casting  black  shadows  in  the  wheat. 

Now  all  is  still:  the  field-man  is 
Lapped  deep  in  slumbering  silentness. 
Not  a  leaf  stirs,  but  clouds  on  high 
Pass  in  dim  flocks  across  the  sky, 
Puff"ed  by  a  breeze  too  light  to  move 
Aught  but  these  wakeful  sheep  above. 

0  what  an  arch  of  light  now  spans 
These  fields  by  night  no  longer  Man's! 
37 


LYRICAL  POEMS 

Their  ancient  Master  is  abroad, 
Walking  beneath  the  moonlight  cold: 
His  presence  is  the  stillness,  He 
Fills  earth  with  wonder  and  mystery. 


38 


NIGHT     X" 

All  from  the  liyht  of  the  sweet  moon 

Tired  men  lie  now  abed; 
Actionless,  full  of  visions,  soon 

Vanishing,  soon  sped. 

The  starry  night  aflock  with  beams 
Of  crystal  light  scarce  stirs: 

Only  its  birds  —  the  cocks,  the  streams, 
Call  'neath  heaven's  wanderers. 

All  silent;  all  hearts  still; 

Love,  cunning,  fire  fallen  low: 
When  faint  morn  straying  on  the  hill 

Sighs,  and  his  soft  airs  flow. 


39 


THE  UNIVERSE 


V 


1  HEARD  a  little  child  beneath  the  stars 

Talk  as  he  ran  along 
To  some  sweet  riddle  in  his  mind  that  seemed 

A-tiptoe  into  song. 

In  his  dark  eyes  lay  a  wild  universe,  — 
Wild  forests,  peaks,  and  crests; 

Angels  and  fairies,  giants,  wolves  and  he 
Were  that  world's  only  guests. 

Elsewhere  was  home  and  mother,  his  warm  bed:  — 

Now,  only  God  alone 
Could,  armed  with  all  His  power  and  wisdom,  make 

Earths  richer  than  his  own. 

0     Man! — thy     dreams,     thy     passions,     hopes, 
desires !  — 

He  in  his  pity  keep 
A  homely  bed  where  love  may  lull  a  child's 

Fond  Universe  asleep! 


40 


GLORIA  MUNDI     ^ 


u 


PON  a  bank,  easeless  with  knob?  of  gold, 
Beneath  a  canopy  of  noonday  smoke, 

I  saw  a  measureless  Beast,  morose  and  bold, 
With  eyes  like  one  from  fihhy  dreams  awoke, 

Wlio  stares  uj)on  the  daylight  in  dc>])air 

For  very  terror  of  the  nothing  tliere. 

This  beast  in  one  flat  hand  clutched  vulture-wise 

A  glittering  image  of  itself  in  jet, 
And  with  the  other  groped  about  its  eyes 

To  drive  away  the  dreams  tliat  pestered  it; 
And  never  ceased  its  coils  to  toss  and  beat 
The  mire  encumbering  its  feeble  feet. 

Sharp  was  its  hunger,  though  continually 
It  seemed  a  cud  of  stones  to  ruminate. 

And  often  like  a  dog  let  glittering  lie 

This  meatless  fare,  its  foolish  gaze  to  sate; 

Once  more  convulsively  to  stoop  its  jaw, 

Or  seize  the  morsel  with  an  envious  paw. 

Indeed,  it  seemed  a  hidden  enemy 

Must  lurk  within  the  clouds  above  that  bank. 
It  strained  so  wildly  its  pale,  stubborn  eye. 

To  pierce  its  own  foul  vapours  dim  and  dank; 
41 


LYRICAL  POEMS 

Till,  wearied  out,  it  raved  in  wrath  and  foam, 
Daring  that  Nought  Invisible  to  come. 

Ay,  and  it  seemed  some  strange  delight  to  find 
In  this  unmeaning  din,  till,  suddenly. 

As  if  it  heard  a  rumour  on  the  wind. 
Or  far  away  its  freer  children  cry. 

Lifting  its  face  made-quiet,  there  it  stayed, 

Till  died  the  echo  its  own  rage  had  made. 

That  place  alone  was  barren  where  it  lay; 

Flowers  bloomed  beyond,  utterly  sweet  and  fair; 
And  even  its  own  dull  heart  might  think  to  stay 

In  livelong  thirst  of  a  clear  river  there. 
Flowing  from  unseen  hills  to  unheard  seas. 
Through  a  still  vale  of  yew  and  almond  trees. 

And  then  I  spied  in  the  lush  green  below 
Its  tortured  belly.  One,  like  silver,  pale, 

With  fingers  closed  upon  a  rope  of  straw, 

That  bound  the  Beast,  squat  neck  to  hoary  tail; 

Lonely  in  all  that  verdure  faint  and  deep, 

He  watched  the  monster  as  a  shepherd  sheep. 

I  marvelled  at  the  power,  strength,  and  rage 

Of  this  poor  creature  in  such  slavery  bound; 
Tettered  with  worms  of  fear;  forlorn  with  age; 
Its  blue  wing-stumps  stretched  helpless  on  the 
ground; 
While  twilight  f^ded  into  darkness  deep. 
And  he  who  watched  it  piped  its  pangs  asleep. 
42 


IDLENESS 

1  SAW  old  Idleness,  fat,  with  great  cheeks 
Puffed  to  the  huge  circumference  of  a  sigh, 
But  past  all  tinge  of  apples  long  ago. 
His  boyish  fingers  twiddled  up  and  down 
The  filthy  remnant  of  a  cup  of  physic 
That  thicked  in  odour  all  the  while  he  stayed. 
His  eyes  were  sad  as  fishes  that  swim  up 
And  stare  upon  an  element  not  theirs 
Through  a  thin  skin  of  shrewish  water,  then 
Turn  on  a  languid  fin,  and  dip  down,  down, 
Into  unplumbed,  vast,  oozy  deeps  of  dream. 
His  stomach  was  his  master,  and  proclaimed  it; 
And  never  were  such  meagre  puppets  made 
The  slaves  of  such  a  tyrant,  as  his  thoughts 
Of  that  obese  epitome  of  ills. 
Trussed  up  he  sat,  the  mockery  of  himself; 
And  when  upon  the  wan  green  of  his  eye 
I  marked  the  gathering  lustre  of  a  tear. 
Thought  I  myself  must  weep,  until  I  caught 
A  grey,  smug  smile  of  satisfaction  smirch 
His  pallid  features  at  his  misery. 
And  laugh  did  I,  to  see  the  little  snares 
He  had  set  for  pests  to  vex  him:  his  great  feet 
Prisoned  in  greater  boots;  so  narrow  a  stool 
43 


LYRICAL  POEMS 

To  seat  such  elephantine  parts  as  his; 

Ay,  and  the  book  he  read,  a  Hebrew  Bible; 

And,  to  incite  a  gross  and  backward  wit, 

An  old,  crabbed,  wormed,  Greek  dictionary;  and 

A  foxy  Ovid  bound  in  dappled  calf. 


44 


GOLIATH 

oTILL  as  a  mountain  with  dark  pines  and  sun 
He  stood  between  the  armies,  and  liis  ^hout 
Rolled  from  the  empyrean  above  tlie  host: 
"Bid  any  little  flea  ye  have  come  forth, 
And  wince  at  death  upon  my  finger-nail!  " 
He  turned  his  large-boned  face:  and  all  his  steel 
Tossed  into  beams  the  lustre  of  the  noon; 
And  all  the  shaggy  horror  of  his  locks 
Rustled  like  locusts  in  a  field  of  corn. 
The  meagre  pupil  of  his  shameless  eye 
Moved  like  a  cormorant  over  a  glassy  sea. 
He  stretched  his  limbs,  and  laughed  into  the  air, 
To  feel  the  groaning  sinews  of  his  breast, 
And  the  long  gush  of  his  swollen  arteries  pause: 
And,  nodding,  wheeled,  towering  in  all  his  height. 
Then,  like  a  wind  that  hushes,  gazed  and  saw 
Down,  down,  far  down  upon  the  untroubled  green 
A  shophcrd-boy  tliat  swung  a  little  sling. 
Goliath  shut  his  lids  to  drive  that  mote. 
Which  vexed  the  eastern  azure  of  his  eye. 
Out  of  his  vision;  and  stared  down  again. 
Yet  stood  the  youth  there,  ruddy  in  the  flare 
Of  his  vast  shield,  nor  spake,  nor  quailed,  gazed  up. 
As  one  might  scan  a  mountain  to  be  scaled. 
45 


LYRICAL  POEMS 

Then,  as  it  were,  a  voice  unearthly  still 

Cried  in  the  cavern  of  his  bristling  ear, 

"  His  name  is  Death !  "  .  .  .  And,  like  the  flush 

That  dyes  Sahara  to  its  lifeless  verge. 

His  brows'  bright  brass  flamed  into  sudden  crimson; 

And  his  great  spear  leapt  upward,  lightning-like, 

Shaking  a  dreadful  thunder  in  the  air; 

Spun  betwixt  earth  and  sky,  bright  as  a  berg 

That  hoards  the  sunlight  in  a  myriad  spires, 

Crashed:  and  struck  echo  through  an  army's  heart. 

Then  paused  Goliath,  and  stared  down  again. 

And  fleet-foot  Fear  from  rolling  orbs  perceived 

Steadfast,  unharmed,  a  stooping  shepherd-boy 

Frowning  upon  the  target  of  his  face. 

And  wrath  tossed  suddenly  up  once  more  his  hand; 

And  a  deep  groan  grieved  all  his  strength  in  him. 

He    breathed;     and,    lost    in    dazzling    darkness, 

prayed  — 
Besought  his  reins,  his  gloating  gods,  his  youth : 
And  turned  to  smite  what  he  no  more  could  see. 
Then  sped  the  singing  pebble-messenger, 
The  chosen  of  the  Lord  from  Israel's  brooks. 
Fleet  to  its  mark,  and  hollowed  a  light  path 
Down  to  the  appalling  Babel  of  his  brain. 
^And  like  the  smoke  of  dreaming  Soulfriere 
Dust  rose  in  cloud,  spread  wide,  slow  silted  down 
Softly  all  softly  on  his  armour's  blaze. 


46 


CHARACTERS  FROM  SHAKESPEARE 


FALSTAFF 

TWAS  in  a  tavern  tiiat  with  old  age  stooped 
And  leaned  rheumatic  rafters  o'er  his  head  — 
A    blowzed,    prodigious   man,    which    talked,    and 

stared, 
And  rolled,  as  if  with  purpose,  a  small  eye 
Like  a  sweet  Cupid  in  a  cask  of  wine. 
I  could  not  view  his  fatness  for  his  soul. 
Which   peeped   like  harmless  lightnings   and   was 

gone; 
As  haps  to  voyagers  of  the  summer  air. 
And  when  he  laughed,  Time  trickled  down  those 

beams, 
As  in  a  glass;  and  when  in  self-defence 
He   puffed   that   paunch,   and   wagged    that   huge, 

Greek  head. 
Nosed  like  a  Punchinello,  then  it  seemed 
An  hundred  widows  swept  in  his  small  voice, 
Now  tenor,  and  now  bass  of  drummy  war. 
He  smiled,  compact  of  loam,  this  orchard  man; 
Mused   like   a   midnight,   webbed  with  moonbeam 

snares 
Of  flitting  Love;  woke  —  and  a  King  he  stood, 
Whom  all  the  world  hath  in  sheer  jest  refused 
For  helpless  laughter's  sake.     And  then,  forfend! 
Bacchus  and  Jove  reared  vast  Olympus  tliere; 
49 


CHARACTERS  FROM  SHAKESPEARE 

And  Pan  leaned  leering  from  Promethean  eyes. 
"Lord!  "  sighed  his  aspect,  weeping  o'er  the  jest, 
"  What   simple  mouse  brought  such  a  mountain 
forth?  " 


50 


MACBETH 

1\0SE,  like  dim  battlements,  the  hills  and  reared 

Steep  crags  into  the  fading  primrose  sky; 

But  in  the  desolate  valleys  fell  small  rain, 

Mingled  with  drifting  cloud.     I  saw  one  come, 

Like  the  fierce  passion  of  that  vacant  place, 

His  face  turned  glittering  to  the  evening  sky; 

His  eyes,  like  grey  despair,  fixed  satelessly 

On  the  still,  rainy  turrets  of  the  storm; 

And  all  his  armour  in  a  haze  of  blue. 

He  held  no  sword,  bare  was  his  hand  and  clenched, 

As  if  to  hide  the  inextinguishable  blood 

Murder  had  painted  there.     And  his  wild  mouth 

Seemed  spouting  echoes  of  deluded  thoughts. 

Around  his  head,  like  vipers  all  distort. 

His  locks  shook,  heavy-laden,  at  each  stride. 

If  fire  may  burn  invisible  to  the  eye; 

0,  if  despair  strive  everlastingly; 

Then  haunted  here  the  creature  of  despair. 

Fanning  and  fanning  flame  to  lick  upon 

A  soul  still  childish  in  a  blackened  hell. 


51 


BANQUO 

W  HAT  dost  thou  here  far  from  thy  native  place? 
What  piercing  influences  of  heaven  have  stirred 
Thy  heart's  last  mansion  all-corruptible  to  wake, 
To  move,  and  in  the  sweets  of  wine  and  fire 
Sit  tempting  madness  with  unholy  eyes? 
Begone,  thou  shuddering,  pale  anomaly! 
The  dark  presses  without  on  yew  and  thorn; 
Stoops  now  the  owl  upon  her  lonely  quest; 
The    pomp    runs    high    here,    and    our    beauteous 

women 
Seek  no  cold  witness  —  0,  let  murder  cry, 
Too  shrill  for  human  ear,  only  to  God. 
Come  not  in  power  to  wreak  so  wild  a  vengeance! 
Thou  knowest  not  now  the  limit  of  man's  heart; 
He  is  beyond  thy  knowledge.     Gaze  not  then. 
Horror  enthroned  lit  with  insanest  light! 


52 


MERCUTIO 

xVLONG  an  avenue  of  almond-trees 

Came   three  girls   chattering   of   their   sweethearts 

three. 
And  lo!  Merculio,  with  Dy ionic  ease, 
Out  of  his  {)hilosophic  eye  cast  all 
A  mere  flowered  twig  of  thought,  whereat  — 
Three  hearts  fell  still  as  when  an  air  dies  out 
And  Venus  falters  lonely  o'er  the  sea. 
But  when  witliin  the  further  mist  of  hloom 
His  step  and  form  were  hid,  the  smooth  child  Ann 
Said,  "  La,  and  what  eyes  he  had!  "  and  Lucy  said, 
"  How  sad  a  gentleman !  "  and  Katherine, 
"  I  wonder,  now,  what  mischief  he  was  at." 
And  these  three  also  April  hid  away, 
Leaving  the  Spring  faint  with  Mercutio. 

V  "53  tf-^-^    /TCi   /iU^oj  . 


JULIET'S  NURSE 

In  old-world  nursery  vacant  now  of  children, 
With  posied  walls,  familiar,  fair,  demure. 
And  facing  southward  o'er  romantic  streets, 
Sits  yet  and  gossips  winter's  dark  away 
One  gloomy,  vast,  glossy,  and  wise,  and  sly: 
And  at  her  side  a  cherried  country  cousin. 
Her  tongue  claps  ever  like  a  ram's  sweet  bell; 
There's  not  a  name  but  calls  a  tale  to  mind  — 
Some  marrowy  patty  of  farce  or  melodram; 
There's  not  a  soldier  but  hath  babes  in  view; 
There's  not  on  earth  what  minds  not  of  the  midwife: 
"0,  widowhood  that  left  me  still  espoused!  " 
Beauty  she  sighs  o'er,  and  she  sighs  o'er  gold; 
Gold  will  buy  all  things,  even  a  sweet  husband. 
Else  only  Heaven  is  left  and  —  farewell  youth! 
Yet,  strangely,  in  that  money-haunted  head, 
The  sad,  gemmed  crucifix  and  incense  blue 
Is  childhood  once  again.     Her  memory 
Is  like  an  ant-hill  which  a  twig  disturbs. 
But  twig  stilled  never.     And  to  see  her  face, 
Broad  with  sleek  homely  beams;  her  babied  hands, 
Ever  like  'lighting  doves,  and  her  small  eyes  — 
Blue  wells  a-twinkle,  arch  and  lewd  and  pious  — 
To  darken  all  sudden  into  Stygian  gloom, 
54 


JULIET'S  NURSE 

And  paint  disaster  with  uplifted  whites, 

Is  life's  epitome.     She  prates  and  prates  — 

A  waterbrook  of  words  o'er  twelve  small  pebbles. 

And   when   she   dies  —  some   grey,   long,    summer 

evening. 
When   the  bird   shouts   of  childhood    through   the 

dusk, 
'Neath  night's  faint  tapers  —  then  her  body  shall 
Lie  stifT  with  silks  of  sixty  thrifty  years. 


S5 


lAGO 

XI.  DARK  lean  face,  a  narrow,  slanting  eye, 
Whose  deeps  of  blackness  one  pale  taper's  beam 
Haunts  with  a  fitting  madness  of  desire; 
A  heart  whose  cinder  at  the  breath  of  passion 
Glows  to  a  momentary  core  of  heat 
Almost  beyond  indifference  to  endure: 
So  parched  lago  frets  his  life  away. 
His  scorn  works  ever  in  a  brain  whose  wit 
This  world  hath  fools  too  many  and  gross  to  seek. 
Ever  to  live  incredibly  alone. 
Masked,  shivering,  deadly,  with  a  simple  Moor 
Of  idiot  gravity,  and  one  pale  flower 
Whose  chill  would  quench  in  everlasting  peace 
His  soul's  unmeasured  flame  —  0  paradox! 
Might  he  but  learn  the  trick!  —  to  wear  her  heart 
One  fragile  hour  of  heedless  innocence, 
And  then,  farewell,  and  the  incessant  grave. 
"0  fool!  0  villain!  "  —  'tis  the  shuttlecock 
Wit  never  leaves  at  rest.     It  is  his  fate 
To  be  a  needle  in  a  world  of  hay, 
Where  honour  is  the  flattery  of  the  fool; 
Sin,  a  tame  bauble;  lies,  a  tiresome  jest; 
Virtue,  a  silly,  whitewashed  block  of  wood 
For  words  to  fell.     Ah!  but  the  secret  lacking, 
56 


lAGO 

The  secret  of  the  child,  the  bird,  the  night, 

Faded,  flouted,  bespattered,  in  days  so  far 

Hate  cannot  bitter  them,  nor  wrath  deny; 

Else  were  this  Desdemona.  .  .  .  Wl^\\ 

Woman  a  harlot  is,  and  life  a  nest 

Fouled  by  long  ages  of  forked  fools.     And  God  — 

lago  deals  not  with  a  tale  so  dull: 

To  have  made  the  world!     Fie  on  thee.  Artisan! 


57 


IMOGEN 

Even  she  too  dead!  all  languor  on  her  brow, 

All  mute  humanity's  last  simpleness, — 

And  yet  the  roses  in  her  cheeks  unf alien! 

Can  death  haunt  silence  with  a  silver  sound? 

Can  death,  that  hushes  all  music  to  a  close, 

Pluck  one  sweet  wire  scarce-audible  that  trembles, 

As  if  a  little  child,  called  Purity, 

Sang  heedlessly  on  of  his  dear  Imogen? 

Surely  if  some  young  flowers  of  Spring  were  put 

Into  the  tender  hollow  of  her  heart, 

'Twould  faintly  answer,  trembling  in  their  petals. 

Poise  but  a  wild  bird's  feather,  it  will  stir 

On  lips  that  even  in  silence  wear  the  badge 

Only  of  truth.     Let  but  a  cricket  wake, 

And  sing  of  home,  and  bid  her  lids  unseal 

The  unspeakable  hospitality  of  her  eyes. 

0  childless  soul  —  call  once  her  husband's  name! 

And  even  if  indeed  from  these  green  hills 

Of  England,  far,  her  spirit  flits  forlorn, 

Back  to  its  youthful  mansion  it  will  turn, 

Back  to  the  floods  of  sorrow  these  sweet  locks 

Yet  heavy  bear  in  drops;  and  Night  shall  see 

Unwearying  as  her  stars  still  Imogen, 

Pausing  'twixt  death  and  life  on  one  hushed  word. 

58 


POLONIUS 

There  haunts  in  Time's  bare  house  an  active 

ghost. 
Enamoured  of  his  name,  Polonius. 
He  moves  small  fingers  much,  and  all  his  speech 
Is  like  a  sampler  of  precisest  words, 
Set  in  the  pattern  of  a  simpleton. 
His  mirth  floats  eerily  down  chill  corridors; 
His  sigh  —  it  is  a  sound  that  loves  a  keyhole; 
His  tenderness  a  faint  court-larnished  thing; 
His  wisdom  prates  as  from  a  wicker  cage; 
His  very  belly  is  a  pompous  nought; 
His  eye  a  page  that  hath  forgot  his  errand. 
Yet  in  his  brain  —  his  spiritual  brain  — 
Lies  hid  a  child's  demure,  small,  silver  whistle 
Which,  to  his  horror,  God  blows,  unawares, 
And  sets  men  staring.     It  is  sad  to  think, 
Might  he  but  don  indeed  thin  flesh  and  blood, 
And  pace  important  to  Law's  inmost  room, 
He  would   see,   much   marvelling,   one  immensely 

wise, 
Named  Bacon,  who,  at  sound  of  his  youth's  step. 
Would  turn  and  call  him  Cousin  —  for  the  likeness. 


59 


OPHELIA 

There  runs  a  crisscross  pattern  of  small  leaves 

j Espalier,  in  a  fading  summer  air, 

'  And  there  Ophelia  walks,  an  azure  flower, 

Whom  wind,  and  snowflakes,  and  the  sudden  rain 

Of  love's  wild  skies  have  purified  to  heaven. 

There  is  a  beauty  past  all  weeping  now 

In  that  sweet,  crooked  mouth,  that  vacant  smile; 

Only  a  lonely  grey  in  those  mad  eyes, 

Which  never  on  earth  shall  learn  their  loneliness. 

And  when  amid  startled  birds  she  sings  lament, 

Mocking  in  hope  the  long  voice  of  the  stream. 

It  seems  her  heart's  lute  hath  a  broken  string. 

Ivy  she  hath,  that  to  old  ruin  clings; 

And  rosemary,  that  sees  remembrance  fade; 

And  pansies,  deeper  than  the  gloom  of  dreams; 

But  ah!  if  utterable,  would  this  earth 

Remain  the  base,  unreal  thing  it  is? 

Better  be  out  of  sight  of  peering  eyes; 

Out  —  out  of  hearing  of  all-useless  words, 

Spoken  of  tedious  tongues  in  heedless  ears. 

And   lest,  at  last,   the  world   should   learn  heart- 
secrets; 

Lest  that  sweet  wolf  from  some  dim  thicket  steal; 

Belter  the  glassy  horror  of  the  stream. 
60 


HAMLET 

Umbrageous   cedars   murmuring   symphonies 
Stouprd     in    lale    twilight    o'er    dark    Denmark's 

Prince: 
He  sat,  his  eyes  companioned  with  dream  — 
Lustrous  large  eyes  that  held  the  world  in  view 
As  some  entranced  child's  a  puppet  show. 
Darkness  gave  birth  to  the  all-trembling  stars, 
And  a  far  roar  of  long-drawn  cataracts, 
Flooding  immeasurable  night  with  sound. 
He  sat  so  still,  his  very  thoughts  took  wing, 
And,  lightest  Ariels,  the  stillness  haunted 
With  midge-like  measures;  but,  at  last,  even  they 
Sank  'nealh  the  influences  of  his  night. 
The  sweet  dust  shed  faint  perfume  in  the  gloom; 
Through  all  wild  space  the  stars'  bright  arrows  fell 
On  the  lone  Prince  —  the  troubled  son  of  man  — 
On  Time's  dark  waters  in  unearthly  trouble: 
Then,  as  the  roar  increased,  and  one  fair  tower 
Of  cloud  took  sky  and  stars  with  majesty, 
He  rose,  his  face  a  ])archment  of  old  age, 
Sorrow  hath  scribbled  o'er,  and  o'er,  and  o'er. 


fil 


SONNETS 


THE  HAPPY  ENCOUNTER 

1  SAW  sweet  Poetry  turn  troubled  eyes 
On  shaggy  Science  nosing  in  the  grass, 
For  by  that  way  poor  Poetry  must  pass 

On  her  long  pilgrimage  to  Paradise. 

He  snuflled,  grunted,  squealed;  perplexed  by  flies, 
Parched,  weatherworn,  and  near  of  sight,  alas, 
From  peering  close  where  very  little  was 

In  dens  secluded  from  the  open  skies. 

But  Poetry  in  bravery  went  down. 

And  called  his  name,  soft,  clear,  and  fearlessly; 
Stooped  low,  and  stroked  his  muzzle  overgrown; 
Refreshed  his  drought  with  dew;  wiped  pure  and 
free 

His  eyes:  and  lo!  laughed  loud  for  joy  to  see 
In  those  grey  deeps  the  azure  of  her  own. 


65 


APRIL 

VjOME,  then,  with  showers;  I  love  thy  cloudy  face 
Gilded  with  splendour  of  the  sunbeam  thro' 
The  heedless  glory  of  thy  locks.     I  know 

The  arch,  sweet  languor  of  thy  fleeting  grace, 

The  windy  lovebeams  of  thy  dwelling-place, 
Thy  dim  dells  where  in  azure  bluebells  blow, 
The  brimming  rivers  where  thy  lightnings  go 

Harmless  and  full  and  swift  from  race  to  race. 

Thou  takest  all  young  hearts  captive  with  thine 
eyes; 
At  rumour  of  thee  the  tongues  of  children  ring 
Louder  than  bees;  the  golden  poplars  rise 

Like  trumps  of  peace;  and  birds,  on  homeward 
wing. 
Fly  mocking  echoes  shrill  along  the  skies, 
Above  the  waves'  grave  diapasoning. 


66 


SEA-MAGIC 
To  R.  I. 

IVl  Y  heart  faints  in  me  for  the  distant  sea. 

The  roar  of  London  is  the  roar  of  ire 

The  lion  utters  in  his  old  desire 
For  Lihya  out  of  dim  captivity. 
The  long  bright  silver  of  Cheapside  I  see, 

Her  gilded  weathercocks  on  roof  and  spire 

Exulting  eastward  in  the  western  fire; 
All  things  recall  one  heart-sick  memory:  — 

Ever  the  rustle  of  the  advancing  foam, 
The  surges'  desolate  thunder,  and  the  cry 
As  of  some  lone  babe  in  the  whispering  sky; 

Ever  I  peer  into  the  restless  gloom 
To  where  a  ship  clad  dim  and  loftily 

Looms  steadfast  in  the  wonder  of  her  home. 


3t    Au/s^    tOA/yvcU-  TtT^^^Um^)^    OA^nA^vui^ 


67 


THE  MARKET-PLACE 

iVlY  mind  is  like  a  clamorous  market-place. 

All  day  in  wind,  rain,  sun,  its  babel  wells; 

Voice  answering  to  voice  in  tumult  swells. 
Chaffering  and  laughing,  pushing  for  a  place, 
My  thoughts  haste  on,  gay,  strange,  poor,  simple, 
base; 

This  one  buys  dust,  and  that  a  bauble  sells: 

But  none  to  any  scrutiny  hints  or  tells 
The  haunting  secrets  hidden  in  each  sad  face. 

Dies  down  the  clamour  when  the  dark  draws  near; 
Strange  looms  the  earth  in  twilight  of  the  West, 

Lonely  with  one  sweet  star  serene  and  clear. 
Dwelling,  when  all  this  place  is  hushed  to  rest. 
On  vacant  stall,  gold,  refuse,  worst  and  best, 

Abandoned  utterly  in  haste  and  fear. 


68 


ANATOMY 

OY  chance  my  fingers,  resting  on  my  face, 
Stayed  suddenly  where  in  its  orbit  slione 
The  lamp  of  all  things  beautiful;  then  on, 

Following  more  heedfully,  did  softly  trace 

Each  arch  and  jirominence  and  hollow  place 

That  shall  revealed  be  when  all  else  is  gone  — 
Warn^th,   colour,   roundness  —  to   oblivion, 

And  nothing  left  but  darkness  and  disgrace. 

Life  like  a  moment  passed  seemed  then  to  be; 

A  transient  dream  this  raiment  that  it  wore; 
While  spelled  my  hand  out  its  mortality 

Made  certain  all  that  had  seemed  doui)t  before: 
Proved  —  0  how  vaguely,  yet  how  lucidly!  — 

How  much  death  does;  and  yet  can  do  no  more. 


69 


EVEN  IN  THE  GRAVE 

1  LAID  my  inventory  at  the  hand 

Of  Death,  who  in  his  gloomy  arbour  sate; 
And  while  he  conned  it,  sweet  and  desolate 

I  heard  Love  singing  in  that  quiet  land. 

He  read  the  record  even  to  the  end  — 
The  heedless,  livelong  injuries  of  Fate, 
The  burden  of  foe,  the  burden  of  love  and  hate; 

The  wounds  of  foe,  the  bitter  wounds  of  friend: 

All,  all,  he  read,  ay,  even  the  indifference. 
The  vain  talk,  vainer  silence,  hope  and  dream. 

He    questioned    me:     "What    seek'st    thou    then 
instead?  " 
I  bowed  my  face  in  the  pale  evening  gleam. 

Then  gazed  he  on  me  with  strange  innocence: 

*'  Even  in  the  grave  thou  wilt  have  thyself,"  he  said. 


70 


BRIGHT  LIFE 

LiOME  now,"  I  said,  "  put  of!  these  webs  of 

death. 
Distract  this  leaden  yearning  of  thine  eyes 
From  lichened  banks  of  peace,  sad  mysteries 
Of  dust  fallen-in  where  passed  the  flitting  breath: 
Turn  thy  sick  thoughts  from  him  that  slumbereth 
In  mouldered  linen  to  the  living  skies. 
The  sun's  bright-clouded  principalities, 
The  salt  deliciousness  the  sea-breeze  hath! 

Lay  thy  warm  hand  on  earth's  cold  clods  and  think 
What  exquisite  greenness  sprouts  from  these  to 
grace 

The  moving  fields  of  summer;  on  the  brink 
Of  arched  waves  the  sea-horizon  trace, 

Whence  wheels  night's  galaxy;  and  in  silence  sink 
The  pride  in  rapture  of  life's  dwelling-place!  " 


71 


HUMANITY 

jIjVTR  exulting  in  thyself,  on  fire 
To  flaunt  the  purple  of  the  Universe, 
To  strut  and  strut,  and  thy  great  part  rehearse; 

Ever  the  slave  of  every  proud  desire; 

Come  now  a  little  down  where  sports  thy  sire; 
Choose   thy   small   better   from    thy   abounding 

worse; 
Prove  thou  thy  lordship  who  hadst  dust  for  nurse, 

And  for  thy  swaddling  the  primeval  mire!  " 

Then  stooped  our  Manhood  nearer,  deep  and  still. 
As  from  earth's  mountains  an  unvoyaged  sea, 

Hushed  my  faint  voice  in  its  great  peace  until 
It  seemed  but  a  bird's  cry  in  eternity; 

And  in  its  future  loomed  the  undreamable. 
And  in  its  past  slept  simple  men  like  me. 


72 


H 


VIRTUE 

ER  breast   is  cold;   her  hands  how   faint  and 

1 


wan 

And  the  deep  wonder  of  her  starry  eyes 

Seemingly  lost  in  cloudless  Paradise, 
And  all  earth's  sorrow  out  of  memory  gone. 
Yet  sings  her  clear  voice  unrelenting  on 

Of  loveliest  impossibilities; 

Though  echo  only  answer  her  with  sighs 
Of  effort  wasted  and  delights  foregone. 

Spent,  baffled,  'wildered,  hated  and  despised, 
Her  straggling  warriors  hasten  to  defeat; 

By  wounds  distracted,  and  by  night  surprised. 
Fall  where  death's  darkness  and  oblivion  meet: 

Yet,  yet:  0  breast  how  cold!     0  hope  how  far! 

Grant  my  son's  ashes  lie  where  these  men's  are! 

73 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD 


REVERIE 

Bring  not  bright  candles,  for  his  eyes 
In  twilight  have  sweet  company; 

Bring  not  bright  candles,  else  they  fly  — 
His  phantoms  fly  — 

Gazing  aggrieved  on  thee! 

Bring  not  bright  candles,  startle  not 
The  phantoms  of  a  vacant  room, 

Flocking  above  a  child  that  dreams  — 
Deep,  deep  in  dreams,  — 

Hid,  in  the  gathering  gloom! 

Bring  not  bright  candles  to  those  eyes 
That  between  earth  and  stars  descry, 

Lovelier  for  the  shadows  there, 
Children  of  air. 

Palaces  in  the  sky! 


77 


THE  MASSACRE 


Y 


1  HE  shadow  of  a  poplar  tree 

Lay  in  that  lake  of  sun, 
As  I  with  my  little  sword  went  in  — 

Against  a  thousand,  one. 

Haughty  and  infinitely  armed, 

Insolent  in  their  wrath, 
Plumed  high  with  purple  plumes  they  held 

The  narrow  meadow  path. 

The  air  was  sultry;  all  was  still; 

The  sun  like  flashing  glass; 
And  snip-snap  my  light-whispering  steel 

In  arcs  of  light  did  pass. 

Lightly  and  dull  fell  each  proud  head, 

Spiked  keen  without  avail, 
Till  swam  my  uncontented  blade 

With  ichor  green  and  pale. 


78 


THE  MASSACRE 

And  silence  fell:  the  rushing  sun 
Stood  still  in  paths  of  heat, 

Gazing  in  waves  of  horror  on 
The  dead  about  my  feet. 

Never  a  whir  of  wing,  no  bee 
Stirred  o'er  the  shameful  slain; 

Nought  but  a  thirsty  wasp  crept  in, 
Stooped,  and  came  out  again. 

The  very  air  trembled  in  fear; 

Eclipsing  shadow  seemed 
Rising  in  crimson  waves  of  gloom  — 

On  one  who  dreamed. 


79 


ECHO 

"Who  called?  "  I  said,  and  the  words 
Through  the  whispering  glades, 

Hither,  thither,  baffled  the  birds  — 
"  Who  called?     Who  called?  " 

The  leafy  boughs  on  high 

Hissed  in  the  sun; 
The  dark  air  carried  my  cry 

Faintingly  on: 

Eyes  in  the  green,  in  the  shade, 

In  the  motionless  brake. 
Voices  that  said  what  I  said, 

For  mockery's  sake: 

"Who  cares?  "  I  bawled  through  ray  tears; 

The  wind  fell  low: 
In  the  silence,  "  Who  cares?  who  cares?  '* 

Wailed  to  and  fro. 


80 


FEAR 

I  KNOW  where  lurk 
The  eyes  of  Fear; 
I,  I  alone, 

Where  shadowy-clear, 
Watching  for  me, 
Lurks  Fear. 

Tis  ever  still 
And  dark,  despite 
All  singing  and 
All  candlelight, 
'Tis  ever  cold, 
And  night. 

He  touches  me; 

Says  quietly, 

"  Stir  not,  nor  whisper, 

I  am  nigh; 

Walk  noiseless  on, 

I  am  by!  " 

He  drives  me 
As  a  dog  a  sheep; 
Like  a  cold  stone 
81 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

I  cannot  weep. 
He  lifts  me 
Hot  from  sleep 

In  marble  hands 
To  where  on  high 
The  jewelled  horror 
Of  his  eye 
Dares  me  to  struggle 
Or  cry. 

No  breast  wherein 

To  chase  away 

That  watchful  shape! 

Vain,  vain  to  say 

"  Haunt  not  with  night 

The  Day!'" 


I 


82 


THE  MERMAIDS 

OAND,  sand;  hills  of  sand; 

And  the  wind  where  nothing  is 
Green  and  sweet  of  the  land; 

No  grass,  no  trees, 

No  bird,  no  butterfly, 
But  hills,  hills  of  sand, 

And  a  burning  sky. 

Sea,  sea,  mounds  of  the  sea. 

Hollow,  and  dark,  and  blue, 
Flashing  incessantly 

The  whole  sea  through; 

No  flower,  no  jutting  root, 
Only  the  floor  of  the  sea. 

With  foam  afloat. 

Blow,  blow,  winding  shells; 

And  the  watery  fish, 
Deaf  to  the  hidden  bells, 

In  the  water  splash; 
No  streaming  gold,  no  eyes. 

Watching  along  the  waves. 
But  far-blown  shells,  faint  bells, 

From  the  darkling  caves. 
83 


MYSELF 

1  HERE  is  a  garden,  grey 

With  mists  of  autumntide; 
Under  the  giant  boughs, 

Stretched  green  on  every  side, 

Along  the  lonely  paths, 

A  little  child  like  me. 
With  face,  with  hands,  like  mine. 

Plays  ever  silently; 

On,  on,  quite  silently, 

When  I  am  there  alone. 
Turns  not  his  head;  lifts  not  his  eyes; 

Heeds  not  as  he  plays  on. 

After  the  birds  are  flown 
From  singing  in  the  trees. 

When  all  is  grey,  all  silent, 
Voices,  and  winds,  and  bees; 

And  I  am  there  alone: 

Forlornly,  silently, 
Plays  in  the  evening  garden 

Myself  with  me. 


AUTUMN 

IHERE  is  a  wind  where  the  rose  was; 
Cold  rain  where  sweet  grass  was; 

And  clouds  like  sheep 

Stream  o'er  the  steep 
Grey  skies  where  the  lark  was. 

Nought  gold  where  your  hair  was; 
Nought  warm  where  your  hand  was; 

But  phantom,  forlorn, 

Beneath  the  thorn. 
Your  ghost  where  your  face  was. 

Sad  winds  where  your  voice  was; 
Tears,  tears  where  my  heart  was; 

And  ever  with  me. 

Child,  ever  with  me, 
Silence  where  hope  was. 


85 


WINTER 


G 


KEEN  Mistletoe! 
Oh,  I  remember  now 
A  dell  of  snow, 
Frost  on  the  bough; 
None  there  but  I: 
Snow,  snow,  and  a  wintry  sky. 

None  there  but  I, 

And  footprints  one  by  one, 

Zigzaggedly, 

Where  I  had  run; 

Where  shrill  and  powdery 

A  robin  sat  in  the  tree. 

And  he  whistled  sweet; 
And  I  in  the  crusted  snow 
With  snow-clubbed  feet 
Jigged  to  and  fro, 
Till,  from  the  day. 
The  rose-light  ebbed  away. 

And  the  robin  flew 
Into  the  air,  the  air, 
The  white  mist  through; 
And  small  and  rare 
86 


WINTER 

The  night-frost  fell 

In  the  calm  and  misty  dell. 

And  the  dusk  gathered  low, 
And  the  silver  moon  and  stars 
On  the  frozen  snow 
Drew  taper  bars, 
Kindled  winking  fires 
In  the  hooded  briers. 

And  the  sprawling  Bear 
Growled  deep  in  the  sky; 
And   Orion's  hair 
Streamed  sparkling  by: 
But  the  North  sighed  low, 
"  Snow,  snow,  more  snow !  " 


87 


ENVOI 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

1 HINE  is  my  all,  how  little  when  'tis  told 

Beside  thy  gold! 
Thine  the  first  peace,  and  mine  the  livelong  strife; 
Thine  the  clear  dawn,  and  mine  the  night  of  life; 

Thine  the  unstained  belief, 

Darkened  in  grief. 

Scarce  even  a  flower  but  thine  its  beauty  and  name, 

Dimmed,  yet  the  same; 
Never  in  twilight  comes  the  moon  to  me, 
Stealing  thro'  those  far  woods,  but  tells  of  thee. 

Falls,  dear,  on  my  wild  heart, 

And  takes  thy  part. 

Thou  art  the  child,  and  I  —  how  steeped  in  age! 

A  blotted  page 
From  that  clear,  little  book  life's  taken  away: 
How  could  I  read  it,  dear,  so  dark  the  day? 

Be  it  all  memory 

Twixt  thee  and  me! 


91 


Inii     ^fe?eA<^     i^Jtx^yr^    'Oyt^nrva  /U^<L   r^^ 


THE  LISTENERS:     1914 


THE  THREE  CHERRY  TREES 

1  HERE  were  three  cherry  trees  once, 
Grew  in  a  garden  all  shady; 
And  there  for  delight  of  so  gladsome  a  sight, 
Walked  a  most  beautiful  lady. 
Dreamed  a  most  beautiful  lady. 

Birds  in  those  branches  did  sing. 
Blackbird  and  throstle  and  linnet, 
But  she  walking  there  was  by  far  the  most  fair  — 
Lovelier  than  all  else  within  it, 
Blackbird  and  throstle  and  linnet. 

But  blossoms  to  berries  do  come, 
All  hanging  on  stalks  light  and  slender, 
And   one   long  summer's  day  charmed   that   lady 
away, 
With  vows  sweet  and  merry  and  tender; 
A  lover  with  voice  low  and  tender. 

Moss  and  lichen  the  green  branches  deck; 
Weeds  nod  in  its  paths  green  and  shady: 
Yet    a    light    footstep    seems   there   to   wander    in 
dreams, 
The  ghost  of  that  beautiful  lady, 
That  happy  and  beautiful  lady. 
95 


OLD  SUSAN 

When  Susan's  work  was  done,  she  would  sit, 
With  one  fat  guttering  candle  lit, 
And  window  opened  wide  to  win 
The  sweet  night  air  to  enter  in. 
There,  with  a  thumb  to  keep  her  place, 
She  would  read,  with  stern  and  wrinkled  face, 
Her  mild  eyes  gliding  very  slow 
Across  the  letters  to  and  fro. 
While  wagged  the  guttering  candle  flame 
In  the  wind  that  through  the  window  came. 
And  sometimes  in  the  silence  she 
Would  mumble  a  sentence  audibly, 
Or  shake  her  head  as  if  to  say, 
"  You  silly  souls,  to  act  this  way!  " 
And  never  a  sound  from  night  I  would  hear. 
Unless  some  far-off  cock  crowed  clear; 
Or  her  old  shuffling  thumb  should  turn 
Another  page;  and  rapt  and  stern, 
Through  her  great  glasses  bent  on  me. 
She  would  glance  into  reality; 
And  shake  her  round  old  silvery  head. 
With  —  "You! — I  thought  you  was  in  bed!"  — 
Only  to  tilt  her  book  again, 
And  rooted  in  Romance  remain. 
96 


OLD  BEN 

Sad  is  old  Ben  Tristlewaite, 

Now  his  day  is  done, 
And  all  his  children 

Far  away  are  gone. 

He  sits  beneath  his  jasmined  porch, 

His  stick  between  his  knees, 
His  eyes  fixed  vacant 

On  his  moss-grown  trees. 

Grass  springs  in  the  green  path, 
His  flowers  are  lean  and  dry. 

His  thatch  hangs  in  wisps  against 
The  evening  sky. 

He  has  no  heart  to  care  now. 

Though  the  winds  will  blow 
Whistling  in  his  casement. 

And  the  rain  drip  tlirough. 

He  thinks  of  his  old  Bettie, 

How  she'd  shake  her  head  and  say, 

*'  You'll  live  to  wish  my  sharp  old  tongue 
Could  scold  —  some  day." 
97 


THE  LISTENERS:  1914 

But  as  in  pale  high  autumn  skies 
The  swallows  float  and  play, 

His  restless  thoughts  pass  to  and  fro. 
But  nowhere  stay. 

Soft,  on  the  morrow,  they  are  gone; 

His  garden  then  will  be 
Denser  and  shadier  and  greener, 

Greener  the  moss-grown  tree. 


^ 


MISS  LOO 

.  Vv  HEN  thin-strewn  memory  I  look  through, 
I  see  most  clearly  poor  Miss  Loo, 
Her  tabby  cat,  her  cage  of  birds. 
Her  nose,  her  hair,  her  muffled  words. 
And  how  she  would  open  her  green  eyes, 
As  if  in  some  immense  surprii^e, 
Whenever  as  we  sat  at  tea 
She  made  some  small  remark  to  me. 

'Tis  always  drowsy  summer  when 

From  out  the  past  she  comes  again; 

The  westering  sunshine  in  a  pool 

Floats  in  her  parlour  still  and  cool; 

While  the  slim  bird  its  lean  wires  shakes, 

As  into  piercing  song  it  breaks; 

Till  Peter's  pale-green  eyes  ajar 

Dream,  wake;  wake,  dream,  in  one  brief  bar. 

And  I  am  sitting,  dull  and  shy. 

And  she  with  gaze  of  vacancy, 

And  large  hands  folded  on  the  tray, 
Musing  the  afternoon  away; 
Her  satin  bosom  heaving  slow 
With  sighs  that  softly  ebb  and  flow. 
99 


THE  LISTENERS:  1914 

And  her  plain  face  in  such  dismay, 
It  seems  unkind  to  look  her  way: 
Until  all  cheerful  back  will  come 
Her  gentle  gleaming  spirit  home: 
And  one  would  think  that  poor  Miss  Loo 
Asked  nothing  else,  if  she  had  you. 


100 


THE  TAILOR 

r  EW  footsteps  stray  when  dusk  droops  o'er 

The  tailor's  old  stone-lintelled  door. 

There  sits  he  stitching  half  asleep, 

Beside  his  smoky  tallow  dip. 

"  Click,  click,"  his  needle  hastes,  and  shrill 

Cries  back  the  cricket  beneath  the  sill. 

Sometimes  he  stays,  and  over  his  thread 

Leans  sidelong  his  old  tousled  head; 

Or  stoops  to  peer  with  half-shut  eye 

When  some  strange  footfall  echoes  by; 

Till  clearer  gleams  his  candle's  spark 

Into  the  dusty  summer  dark. 

Then  from  his  crosslegs  he  gets  down, 

To  find  how  dark  the  evening  is  grown; 

And  hunched-up  in  his  door  he  will  hear 

The  cricket  whistling  crisp  and  clear; 

And  so  beneath  the  starry  grey 

Will  mutter  half  a  seam  away. 


im 


IVIARTHA 

UNCE  .  .  .  once  upon  a  time  .  .  ." 
Over  and  over  again, 
Martha  would  tell  us  her  stories, 
In  the  hazel  glen. 

Hers  were  those  clear  grey  eyes 
You  watch,  and  the  story  seems 

Told  by  their  beautifulness 
Tranquil  as  dreams. 

She  would  sit  with  her  two  slim  hands 
Clasped  round  her  bended  knees; 

While  we  on  our  elbows  lolled, 
And  stared  at  ease. 

Her  voice  and  her  narrow  chin, 

Her  grave  small  lovely  head. 
Seemed  half  the  meaning 

Of  the  words  she  said. 

"  Once  .  .  .  once  upon  a  time  .  .  ." 
Like  a  dream  you  dream  in  the  night, 

Fairies  and  gnomes  stole  out 
In  the  leaf -green  light. 
102 


MARTHA 

And  her  beauty  far  away 

Would  fade,  as  her  voice  ran  on, 

Till  hazel  and  summer  sun 
And  all  were  gone: 

All  fordone  and  forgot; 

And  like  clouds  in  the  height  of  the  sky, 
Our  hearts  stood  still  in  the  hush 

Of  an  age  gone  by. 


103 


THE  SLEEPER 

x\S  Ann  came  in  one  summer's  day, 

She  felt  that  she  must  creep, 
So  silent  was  the  clear  cool  house, 

It  seemed  a  house  of  sleep. 
And  sure,  when  she  pushed  open  the  door, 

Rapt  in  the  stillness  there, 
Her  mother  sat,  with  stooping  head, 

Asleep  upon  a  chair; 
Fast  —  fast  asleep ;  her  two  hands  laid 

Loose-folded  on  her  knee. 
So  that  her  small  unconscious  face 

Looked  half  unreal  to  be: 
So  calmly  lit  with  sleep's  pale  light 

Each  feature  was;  so  fair 
Her  forehead  —  every  trouble  was 

Smoothed  out  beneath  her  hair. 
But  though  her  mind  in  dream  now  moved, 

Still  seemed  her  gaze  to  rest  — 
From  out  beneath  her  fast-sealed  lids. 

Above  her  moving  breast  — 
On  Ann;  as  quite,  quite  still  she  stood; 

Yet  slumber  lay  so  deep 
Even  her  hands  upon  her  lap 

Seemed  saturate  with  sleep. 
104 


THE  SLEEPER 

And  as  Ann  peeped,  a  cloudlike  dread 

Stole  over  her,  and  then, 
On  stealthy,  mouselike  feet  she  trod, 

And  tiptoed  out  again. 


105 


THE  KEYS  OF  MORNING 


V 


While  at  her  bedroom  window  once, 

Learning  her  task  for  school, 
Little  Louisa  lonely  sat 

In  the  morning  clear  and  cool, 
She  slanted  her  small  bead-brown  eyes 

Across  the  empty  street, 
And  saw  Death  softly  watching  her 

In  the  sunshine  pale  and  sweet. 

His  was  a  long  lean  sallow  face; 

He  sat  with  half-shut  eyes, 
Like  an  old  sailor  in  a  ship 

Becalmed  'neath  tropic  skies. 
Beside  him  in  the  dust  he  had  set 

His  staff  and  shady  hat; 
These,  peeping  small,  Louisa  saw 

Quite  clearly  where  she  sat  — 

The  thinness  of  his  coal-black  locks, 

His  hands  so  long  and  lean 
They  scarcely  seemed  to  grasp  at  all 

The  keys  that  hung  between: 
Both  were  of  gold,  but  one  was  small, 

And  with  this  last  did  he 
106 


THE  KEYS  OF  MORNING 

Wag  in  the  air,  as  if  to  say, 
"  Come  hither,  child,  to  me!  " 

Louisa  laid  her  lesson  book 

On  the  cold  window-sill; 
And  in  the  sleepy  sunshine  house 

Went  softly  down,  until 
She  stood  in  the  half-opened  door, 

And  peeped.     But  strange  to  say, 
Where  Death  just  now  had  sunning  sat 

Only  a  shadow  lay: 
Just  the  tall  chimney's  round-topped  cowl, 

And  the  small  sun  behind, 
Had  with  its  shadow  in  the  dust 

Called  sleepy  Death  to  mind. 
But  most  she  thought  how  strange  it  was 

Two  keys  that  he  should  bear, 
And  that,  when  beckoning,  he  should  wag 

The  littlest  in  the  air. 


107 


RACHEL 

IxACHEL   sings  sweet 

Oh  yes,  at  night, 
Her  pale  face  bent 

In  the  candle-light. 
Her  slim  hands  touch 

The  answering  keys, 
And  she  sings  of  hope 

And  of  memories: 
Sings  to  the  little 

Boy  that  stands 
Watching  those  slim, 

Light,  heedful  hands. 
He  looks  in  her  face; 

Her  dark  eyes  seem 
Dark  with  a  beautiful 

Distant  dream; 
And  still  she  plays, 

Sings  tenderly 
To  him  of  hope. 

And  of  memory. 


108 


ALONE   V 

A  VERY  old  woman 
Lives  in  yon  house. 
The  squeak  of  tlie  cricket. 
The  stir  of  the  mouse, 
Are  all  she  knows 
Of  the  earth  and  us. 

Once  she  was  young, 
Would  dance  and  play, 
Like  many  another 
Young  popinjay; 
And  run  to  her  mother 
At  dusk  of  day. 

And  colours  bright 
She  delighted  in; 
The  fiddle  to  hear. 
And  to  lift  her  chin, 
And  sing  as  small 
As  a  twittering  wren. 

But  age  apace 
Comes  at  last  to  all; 
109 


THE  LISTENERS:  1914 

And  a  lone  house  filled 
With  the  cricket's  call; 
And  the  scampering  mouse 
In  the  hollow  wall. 


110 


THE  BELLS 

Shadow  and  light  both  strove  to  be 
The  eight  bell-ringers'  company, 
As  with  his  gliding  rope  in  hand, 
Counting  his  changes,  each  did  stand; 
While  rang  and  trembled  every  stone. 
To  music  by  the  bell-mouths  blown: 
Till  the  bright  clouds  that  towered  on  high 
Seemed  to  re-echo  cry  with  cry. 
Still  swang  the  clappers  to  and  fro. 
When,  in  the  far-spread  fields  below, 
I  saw  a  ploughman  with  his  team 
Lift  to  the  bells  and  fix  on  them 
His  distant  eyes,  as  if  he  would 
Drink  in  the  utmost  sound  he  could; 
While  near  him  sat  his  children  three. 
And  in  the  green  grass  placidly 
Played  undistracted  on,  as  if 
What  music  earthly  bells  might  give 
Could  only  faintly  stir  their  dream. 
And  stillness  make  more  lovely  seem. 
Soon  night  hid  horses,  children,  all 
In  sleep  deep  and  ambrosial. 
Yet,  yet,  it  seemed,  from  star  to  star, 
Welling  now  near,  now  faint  and  far, 
Those  echoing  bells  rang  on  in  dream. 
And  stillness  made  even  lovelier  seem. 
Ill 


THE  SCARECROW 

All  winter  through  I  bow  my  head 

Beneath  the  driving  rain; 
The  North  Wind  powders  me  with  snow 

And  blows  me  back  again; 
At  midnight  'neath  a  maze  of  stars 

I  flame  with  glittering  rime, 
And  stand,  above  the  stubble,  stiff 

As  mail  at  morning-prime. 
But  when  that  child,  called  Spring,  and  all 

His  host  of  children,  come. 
Scattering  their  buds  and  dew  upon 

These  acres  of  my  home. 
Some  rapture  in  my  rags  awakes; 

I  lift  void  eyes  and  scan 
The  skies  for  crows,  those  ravening  foes, 

Of  my  strange  master,  Man. 
I  watch  him  striding  lank  behind 

His  clashing  team,  and  know 
Soon  will  the  wheat  swish  body  high 

Where  once  lay  sterile  snow; 
Soon  shall  I  gaze  across  a  sea 

Of  sun-begotten  grain. 
Which  my  unflinching  watch  hath  sealed 

For  harvest  once  again. 
112 


NOD 

Softly  alon^  the  road  of  evening, 

In  a  twilight  dim  with  rose, 
Wrinkled  with  age,  and  drenched  with  dew, 

Old  Nod,  the  shepherd,  goes. 

His  drowsy  flock  streams  on  before  him. 
Their  fleeces  charged  with  gold. 

To  where  the  sun's  last  beam  leans  low 
On  Nod  the  shepherd's  fold. 

The  hedge  is  quick  and  green  with  brier. 
From  their  sand  the  conies  creep; 

And  all  the  birds  that  fly  in  heaven 
Flock  singing  home  to  sleep. 

His  lambs  outnumber  a  noon's  roses. 

Yet,  when  night's  shadows  fall. 
His  blind  old  sheep-dog.  Slumber-soon, 

Misses  not  one  of  all. 

His  are  the  quiet  steeps  of  dreamland, 

The  waters  of  no-more-pain. 
His  ram's  bell  rings  'neath  an  arch  of  stars, 

"  Rest,  rest,  and  rest  again." 
113 


THE  BINDWEED 

1  HE  bindweed  roots  pierce  down 

Deeper  than  men  do  lie, 
Laid  in  their  dark-shut  graves 

Their  slumbering  kinsmen  by. 

Yet  what  frail  thin-spun  flowers 

She  casts  into  the  air, 
To  breathe  the  sunshine,  and 

To  leave  her  fragrance  there. 

But  when  the  sweet  moon  comes. 

Showering  her  silver  down. 
Half-wreathed  in  faint  sleep. 

They  droop  where  they  have  blown. 

So  all  the  grass  is  set. 

Beneath  her  trembling  ray, 
With  buds  that  have  been  flowers, 

Brimmed  with  reflected  day. 


114 


WINTER 

Clouded  with  snow 

The  cold  winds  blow, 
And  shrill  on  leafless  bough 
The  robin  with  its  burning  breast 

Alone  sings  now. 

The  rayless  sun, 

Day's  journey  done, 
Sheds  its  last  ebbing  light 
On  fields  in  leagues  of  beauty  spread 

Unearthly  white. 

Thick  draws  the  dark, 

And  spark  by  spark, 
The  frost-fires  kindle,  and  soon 
Over  that  sea  of  frozen  foam 

Floats  the  white  moon. 


115 


THERE  BLOOMS  NO  BUD  IN  MAY 

IHERE  blooms  no  bud  in  May 
Can  for  its  white  compare 

With  snow  at  break  of  day, 
On  fields  forlorn  and  bare. 

For  shadow  it  hath  rose, 

Azure,  and  amethyst; 
And  every  air  that  blows 

Dies  out  in  beauteous  mist. 

It  hangs  the  frozen  bough 

With  flowers  on  which  the  night 

Wheeling  her  darkness  through 
Scatters  a  starry  light. 

Fearful  of  its  pale  glare 
In  flocks  the  starlings  rise; 

Slide  through  the  frosty  air, 
And  perch  with  plaintive  cries. 

Only  the  inky  rook. 

Hunched  cold  in  ruiSed  wings, 
Its  snowy  nest  forsook. 

Caws  of  unnumbered  Springs. 
116 


NOON  AND  NIGHT  FLOWER 

INOT  any  flower  that  blows 

But  shining  watch  doth  keep; 
Every  swift  changing  chequered  hour  it  knows 
Now  to  break  forth  in  beauty;  now  to  sleep. 

This  for  the  roving  bee 

Keeps  open  house,  and  this 
Stainless  and  clear  is,  that  in  darkness  she 
May  lure  the  moth  to  where  her  nectar  is. 

Lovely  beyond  the  rest 

Are  these  of  all  delight:  — 
The  tiny  pimpernel  that  noon  loves  best. 
The  primrose  palely  burning  through  the  night. 

One  'neath  day's  burning  sky 

With  ruby  decks  her  place. 
The  other  when  Eve's  chariot  glideth  by 
Lifts  her  dim  torch  to  light  that  dreaming  face. 


117 


ESTRANGED 

N  0  one  was  with  me  there  — 
Happy  I  was  —  alone; 
Yet  from  the  sunshine  suddenly 
A  joy  was  gone. 

A  bird  in  an  empty  house 
Sad  echoes  makes  to  ring, 
Flitting  from  room  to  room 
On  restless  wing: 

Till  from  its  shades  he  flies, 
And  leaves  forlorn  and  dim 
The  narrow  solitudes 

So  strange  to  him. 

So,  when  with  fickle  heart 
I  joyed  in  the  passing  day, 
A  presence  my  mood  estranged 
Went  grieved  away. 


118 


THE  TIRED  CUPID 

1  HE  thin  moonlight  with  trickling  ray, 
Thridtling  the  boughs  of  silver  may, 
Trembles  in  beauty,  pale  and  cool. 
On  folded  flower,  and  mantled  pool. 
All  in  a  haze  the  rushes  lean  — 
And  he  —  he  sits,  with  chin  between 
His  two  cold  hands;  his  bare  feet  set 
Deep  in  the  grasses,  green  and  wet. 
About  his  head  a  hundred  rings 
Of  gold  loop  down  to  meet  his  wings, 
Whose  feathers,  arched  their  stillness  through, 
Gleam  with  slow-gathering  drops  of  dew. 
The  mouse-bat  peers;  the  stealthy  vole 
Creeps  from  the  covert  of  its  hole; 
A  shimmering  moth  its  pinions  furls. 
Grey  in  the  moonshine  of  his  curls; 
'Neath  the  faint  stars  the  night-airs  stray, 
Scattering  the  fragrance  of  the  may; 
And  with  each  stirring  of  the  bough 
Shadow  beclouds  his  childlike  brow. 


119 


DREAMS 

JjE  gentle,  0  hands  of  a  child; 
Be  true:  like  a  shadowy  sea 
In  the  starry  darkness  of  night 
Are  your  eyes  to  me. 

But  words  are  shallow,  and  soon 
Dreams  fade  that  the  heart  once  knew; 
And  youth  fades  out  in  the  mind, 
In  the  dark  eyes  too. 

What  can  a  tired  heart  say, 

Which  the  wise  of  the  world  have  made  dumb? 
Save  to  the  lonely  dreams  of  a  child, 
"  Return  again,  come !  " 


120 


FAITHLESS 

IHE  words  you  said  grow  faint; 

The  lamps  you  lit  burn  dim; 
Yet,  still  be  near  your  faithless  friend 

To  urge  and  counsel  him. 

Still  with  returning  feet 

To  where  life's  shadows  brood, 

With  steadfast  eyes  made  clear  in  death 
Haunt  his  vague  solitude. 

So  he,  beguiled  with  earth, 
Yet  with  its  vain  things  vexed, 

Keep  even  to  his  own  heart  unknown 
Your  memory  unperplexed. 


121 


THE  SHADE 

lyARKER  than  night;  and  oh,  much  darker  she, 
Whose  eyes  in  deep  night  darkness  gaze  on  me. 
No  stars  surround  her;  yet  the  moon  seems  hid 
Afar  somewhere,  beneath  that  narrow  lid. 
She  darkens  against  the  darkness;  and  her  face 
Only  by  adding  thought  to  thought  I  trace, 
Limned  shadowily:  0  dream,  return  once  more 
To  gloomy  Hades  and  the  whispering  shore! 


122 


BE  ANGRY  NOW  NO  MORE 

JJE  angry  now  no  more! 

If  I  have  grieved  thee  —  if 
Thy  kindness,  mine  before, 
No  hope  may  now  restore: 

Only  forgive,  forgive! 

If  still  resentment  burns 

In  thy  cold  breast,  oh  if 
No  more  to  pity  turns, 
No  more,  once  tender,  yearns 

Thy  love;  oh  yet  forgive!  .  .  , 

Ask  of  the  winter  rain 

June's  witliered  rose  again: 

Ask  grace  of  the  salt  sea: 

She  will  not  answer  thee. 

God   would   ten   times  have  shriven 

A  heart  so  riven; 

In  her  cold  care  thou  would'st  be 

Still  unforgiven. 


123 


EXILE  .^ 

rl  AD  the  gods  loved  me  I  had  lain 

Where  darnel  is,  and  thorn, 
And  the  wild  night-bird's  nightlong  strain 

Trembles  in  boughs  forlorn. 

Nay,  but  they  loved  me  not;  and  I 

Must  needs  a  stranger  be, 
Whose  every  exiled  day  gone  by 

Aches  with  their  memory. 


124 


WHERE? 

Where  is  my  love  — 

In  silence  and  shadow  she  lies, 
Under  the  April-grey,  calm  waste  of  the  skies; 
And  a  bird  above. 

In  the  darkness  tender  and  clear, 
Keeps  saying  over  and  over,  Love  lies  here! 

Not  that  she's  dead; 
Only  her  soul  is  flown 
Out  of  its  last  pure  earthly  mansion; 
And  cries  instead 
In  the  darkness,  tender  and  clear, 
Like  the  voice  of  a  bird  in  the  leaves,  Love  — 
Love  lies  here. 


125 


MUSIC  UNHEARD 

oWEET  sounds,  begone  — 

Whose  music  on  my  ear 
Stirs  foolish  discontent 

Or  lingering  here; 
When,  if  I  crossed 

The  crystal  verge  of  death, 
Him  I  should  see. 

Who  these  sounds  murmureth. 

Sweet  sounds,  begone  — 

Ask  not  my  heart  to  break 
Its  bond  of  bravery  for 

Sweet  quiet's  sake; 
Lure  not  my  feet 

To  leave  the  path  they  must 
Tread  on,  unfaltering, 

Till  I  sleep  in  dust. 

Sweet  sounds,  begone! 

Though  silence  brings  apace 
Deadly  disquiet 

Of  this  homeless  place; 

126 


MUSIC  UNHEARD 

And  all  I  love 

In  beauty  cries  to  me, 
"  We  but  vain  shadows 

And  reflections  be." 


127 


ALL  THAT'S  PAST 

Very  oM  are  the  woods; 

And  the  buds  that  break 
Out  of  the  brier's  boughs, 

When  March  winds  wake, 
So  old  with  their  beauty  are  — 

Oh,  no  man  knows 
Through  what  wild  centuries 

Roves  back  the  rose. 

Very  old  are  the  brooks; 

And  the  rills  that  rise 
Where  snow  sleeps  cold  beneath 

The  azure  skies 
Sing  such  a  history 

Of  come  and  gone, 
Their  every  drop  is  as  wise 

As  Solomon. 

Very  old  are  we  men; 

Our  dreams  are  tales 
Told  in  dim  Eden 

By  Eve's  nightingales; 

128 


ALL  THAT'S  PAST 

We  wake  and  whisper  awhile, 
But,  the  day  gone  by, 

Silence  and  sleep  like  fields 
Of  amaranth  lie. 


129 


WHEN  THE  ROSE  IS  FADED 

When  the  rose  is  faded, 
Memory  may  still  dwell  on 

Her  beauty  shadowed. 

And  the  sweet  smell  gone. 

That  vanishing  loveliness. 
That  burdening  breath 

No  bond  of  life  hath  then 
Nor  grief  of  death. 

Tis  the  immortal  thought 

Whose  passion  still 
Makes  of  the  changing 

The  unchangeable. 

Oh,  thus  thy  beauty. 

Loveliest  on  earth  to  me, 

Dark  with  no  sorrow,  shines 
And  burns,  with  Thee. 


130 


SLEEP 

iVlEN  all,  and  birds,  and  creeping  beasts, 
When  the  dark  of  night  is  deep, 

From  the  moving  wonder  of  their  lives 
Commit  themselves  to  sleep. 

Without  a  thought,  or  fear,  they  shut 

The  narrow  gates  of  sense; 
Heedless  and  quiet,  in  slumber  turn 

Their  strength  to  impotence. 

The  transient  strangeness  of  the  earth 

Their  spirits  no  more  see: 
Within  a  silent  gloom  withdrawn, 

They  slumber  in  secrecy. 

Two  worlds  they  have  —  a  globe  forgot 
Wlieeling  from  dark  to  light; 

And  all  the  enchanted  realm  of  dream 
That  burgeons  out  of  night. 


131 


THE  STRANGER 

HaLF-HIDDEN  in  a  graveyard, 

In  the  blackness  of  a  yew, 
Where  never  living  creature  stirs. 

Nor  sunbeam  pierces  through, 

Is  a  tomb,  green  and  crooked, — 

Its  faded  legend  gone, — 
With  but  one  rain-worn  cherub's  head 

Of  smouldering  stone. 

There,  when  the  dusk  is  falling. 

Silence  broods  so  deep 
It  seems  that  every  wind  that  breathes 

Blows  from  the  field  of  sleep. 

Day  breaks  in  heedless  beauty. 

Kindling  each  drop  of  dew. 
But  unforsaking  shadow  dwells 

Beneath  this  lonely  yew. 

And,  all  else  lost  and  faded. 

Only  this  listening  head 
Keeps  with  a  strange  unanswering  smile 

Its  secret  with  the  dead. 
132 


NEVER  MORE  SAILOR 

IN  EVER  more,  Sailor, 

Shalt  thou  be 

Tossed  on  the  wind-ridden, 

Restless  sea. 

Its  tides  may  labour; 

All  the  world 

Shake  'neath  that  weight 

Of  waters  hurled: 

But  its  whole  shock 

Can  only  stir 

Thy  dust  to  a  quiet 

Even  quieter. 

Thou  mock'st  at  land 

Who  now  art  come 

To  such  a  small 

And  shallow  home; 

Yet  bore  the  sea 

Full  many  a  care 

For  bones  that  once 

A  sailor's  were. 

And  though  the  grave's 

Deep  Boundlessness 

Thy  once  sea-deafened 

Ear  distress, 

133 


THE  LISTENERS:  1914 

No  robin  ever 
On  the  deep 
Hopped  with  his  song 
To  haunt  thy  sleep. 


134 


ARABIA 

TAR  are  the  shades  of  Arabia, 

Where  the  Princes  ride  at  noon, 
'Mid  the  verdurous  vales  and  thickets, 

Under  the  ghost  of  the  moon; 
And  so  dark  is  that  vaulted  purple 

Flowers  in  the  forest  rise 
And  toss  into  blossom  'gainst  the  phantom  stars 

Pale  in  the  noonday  skies. 

Sweet  is  the  music  of  Arabia 

In  my  heart,  when  out  of  dreams 
I  still  in  the  thin  clear  mirk  of  dawn 

Descry  her  gliding  streams; 
Hear  her  strange  lutes  on  the  green  banks 

Ring  loud  with  the  grief  and  delight 
Of  the  dim-silked  dark-haired  Musicians 

In  the  brooding  silence  of  night. 

Tliey  haunt  me  —  her  lutes  and  her  forests; 

No  beauty  on  earth  I  see 
But  shadowed  with  that  dreams  recalls 

Her  loveliness  to  me: 
Still  eyes  look  coldly  upon  me, 

Cold  voices  whisper  and  say  — 
"  He  is  crazed  with  the  spell  of  far  Arabia, 

They  have  stolen  his  wits  away." 
133 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

OTILL,  and  blanched,  and  cold,  and  lone. 

The  icy  hills  far  oflf  from  me 
With  frosty  ulys  overgrown 

Stand  in  their  sculptured  secrecy. 

No  path  of  theirs  the  chamois  fleet 
Treads,  with  a  nostril  to  the  wind; 

O'er  their  ice-marbled  glaciers  beat 
No  wings  of  eagles  in  my  mind  — 

Yea,  in  my  mind  these  mountains  rise, 
Their  perils  dyed  with  evening's  rose; 

And  still  my  ghost  sits  at  my  eyes 

And  thirsts  for  their  untroubled  snows. 


136 


QUEEN  DJENIRA 

W  HEN  Queen  Djenira  slumbers  through 

The  sultry  noon's  repose, 
From  out  her  dreams,  as  soft  she  lies, 

A  faint  thin  music  flows. 

Her  lovely  hands  lie  narrow  and  pale 

With  gilded  nails,  her  head 
Couched  in  its  banded  nets  of  gold 
Lies  pillowed  on  her  bed. 

The  little  Nubian  boys  who  fan 

Her  cheeks  and  tresses  clear. 
Wonderful,  wonderful,  wonderful  voices 

Seem  afar  to  hear. 

They  slide  their  eyes,  and  nodding,  say, 

"  Queen  Djenira  walks  to-day 
The  courts  of  the  lord  Pthamasar  r)/) 

Where  the  sweet  birds  of  Psuthys  are."    ^^^-t^*-'-^ 

And  those  of  earth  about  her  porch 

Of  shadow  cool  and  grey 
Their  sidelong  beaks  in  silence  lean, 

And  silent  flit  away. 
137 


NEVER-TO-BE 

UOWN  by  the  waters  of  the  sea 
Reigns  the  King  of  Never-to-be. 
His  palace  walls  are  black  with  night; 
His  torches  star  and  moon's  light. 
And  for  his  timepiece  deep  and  grave 
Beats  on  the  green  unhastening  wave. 

Windswept  are  his  high  corridors; 
His  pleasance  the  sea-mantled  shores; 
For  sentinel  a  shadow  stands 
With  hair  in  heaven,  and  cloudy  hands; 
And  round  his  bed,  king's  guards  to  be, 
Watch  pines  in  iron  solemnity. 

His  hound  is  mute;  his  steed  at  will 
Roams  pastures  deep  with  asphodel; 
His  queen  is  to  her  slumber  gone; 
His  courtiers  mute  lie,  hewn  in  stone; 
He  hath  forgot  where  he  did  hide 
His  sceptre  in  the  mountain-side. 

Grey-capped  and  muttering,  mad  is  he- 
The  childless  King  of  Never-to-be; 
For  all  his  people  in  the  deep 
138 


NEVER-TO-BE 

Keep,  everlasting,  fast  asleep; 
And  all  his  realm  is  foam  and  rain. 
Whispering  of  what  comes  not  again. 


139 


THE  DARK  CHATEAU 

In  dreams  a  dark  chateau 

Stands  ever  open  to  me, 
In  far  ravines  dream-waters  flow, 

Descending  soundlessly; 
ALove  its  peaks  the  eagle  floats, 

Lone  in  a  sunless  sky; 
Mute  are  the  golden  woodland  throats 

Of  the  birds  flitting  by. 

No  voice  is  audible.     The  wind 

Sleeps  in  its  peace. 
No  flower  of  the  light  can  find 

Refuge  beneath  its  trees; 
Only  the  darkening  ivy  climbs 

Mingled  with  wilding  rose, 
And  cypress,  morn  and  evening,  time's 

Black  shadow  throws. 

All  vacant,  and  unknown; 

Only  the  dreamer  steps 
From  stone  to  hollow  stone, 

Where  the  green  moss  sleeps. 
Peers  at  the  rivers  in  its  deeps. 

The  eagle  lone  in  the  sky, 
140 


THE  DARK  CHATEAU 

While  the  dew  of  evening  drips. 
Coldly  and  silently. 

Would  that  I  could  steal  in!  — 

Into  each  secret  room; 
Would  that  my  sleep-bright  eyes  could  win 

To  the  inner  gloom; 
Gaze  from  its  high  windows. 

Far  down  its  mouldering  walls, 
Where  amber-clear  still  Lethe  flows, 

And  foaming  falls. 

But  ever  as  I  gaze, 

From  slumber  soft  doth  come 
Some  touch  my  stagnant  sense  to  raise 

To  its  old  earthly  home; 
Fades  then  that  sky  serene; 

And  peak  of  ageless  snow; 
Fades  to  a  paling  dawn-lit  green, 

My  dark  chateau. 


141 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE 

UEEP  in  a  forest  where  the  kestrel  screamed, 

Beside  a  lake  of  water,  clear  as  glass, 
The  time-worn  windows  of  a  stone  house  gleamed 
Named  only  "  Alas." 

Yet  happy  as  the  wild  birds  in  the  glades 

Of  that  green  forest,  thridding  the  still  air 
With  low  continued  heedless  serenades, 
Its  heedless  people  were. 

The  throbbing  chords  of  violin  and  lute, 

The  lustre  of  lean  tapers  in  dark  eyes, 
Fair  colours,  beauteous  flowers,  faint-bloomed  fruit 
Made  earth  seem  Paradise 

To  them  that  dwelt  within  this  lonely  house: 
Like  children  of  the  gods  in  lasting  peace, 
They  ate,  sang,  danced,  as  if  each  day's  carouse 
Need  never  pause,  nor  cease. 

Some  to  the  hunt  would  wend,  with  hound  and  horn, 

And  clash  of  silver,  beauty,  bravery,  pride, 
Heeding  not  one  who  on  white  horse  upborne 
With  soundless  hoofs  did  ride. 
142 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE 

Dreamers  there  were  who  watched  the  hours  away 

Beside  a  fountain's  foam.     And  in  the  sweet 
Of  phantom  evening,  'neath  the  nighl-Lird's  lay, 
Did  lovod  with  loved-one  meet. 

All,  all  were  children,  for,  the  long  day  done, 
They    harred    the   heavy   door   against    lightfoot 
fear; 
And  few  words  spake  though  one  known  face  was 
gone, 

Yet  still  seemed  hovering  near. 

They  heaped  the  bright  fire  higher;   poured  dark 
wine; 
And  in  long  revelry  dazed  the  questioning  eye; 
Curtained  three-fold  the  heart-dismaying  shine 
Of  midnight  streaming  by. 

They  shut  tlie  dark  out  from  the  painted  wall, 

With  candles  dared  the  shadow  at  the  door, 
Sang  down  the  faint  reiterated  call 

Of  those  who  came  no  more. 

Yet  clear  above  that  portal  plain  was  writ, 
Confronting  each  at  length  alone  to  pass 
Out  of  its  beauty  into  night  star-lit, 
That  word  "Alas!" 


143 


THE  LISTENERS 

IS  there  anybody  there?"  said  the  Traveller, 

Knocking  on  the  moonlit  door; 
And  his  horse  in  the  silence  champed  the  grasses 

Of  the  forest's  ferny  floor: 
And  a  bird  flew  up  out  of  the  turret, 

Above  the  Traveller's  head: 
And  he  smote  upon  the  door  again  a  second  time; 

"  Is  there  anybody  there?  "  he  said. 
But  no  one  descended  to  the  Traveller; 

No  head  from  the  leaf-fringed  sill 
Leaned  over  and  looked  into  his  grey  eyes, 

Where  he  stood  perplexed  and  still. 
But  only  a  host  of  phantom  listeners 

That  dwelt  in  the  lone  house  then 
Stood  listening  in  the  quiet  of  the  moonlight 

To  that  voice  from  the  world  of  men: 
Stood  thronging  the  faint  moonbeams  on  the  dark 
stair. 

That  goes  down  to  the  empty  hall, 
Hearkening  in  an  air  stirred  and  shaken 

By  the  lonely  Traveller's  call. 
And  he  felt  in  his  heart  their  strangeness, 

Their  stillness  answering  his  cry, 
144 


THE  LISTENERS 

While  his  horse  moved,  cropping  the  dark  turf, 

'Neath  the  starred  and  leafy  sky; 
For  he  suddenly  smote  on  the  door,  even 

Louder,  and  lifted  his  head:  — 
*'  Tell  them  I  came,  and  no  one  answered. 

That  I  kept  my  word,"  he  said. 
Never  the  least  stir  made  the  listeners, 

Though  every  word  he  spake 
Fell  echoing  through  the  shadowiness  of  the  still 
house 

From  the  one  man  left  awake: 
Ay,  they  heard  his  foot  upon  the  stirrup. 

And  the  sound  of  iron  on  stone, 
And  how  the  silence  surged  softly  backward. 

When  the  plunging  hoofs  were  gone. 


145 


TIME  PASSES 

1  HERE  was  nought  in  the  Valley 

But  a  Tower  of  Ivory, 
Its  base  enwreathed  with  red 

Flowers  that  at  evening 

Caught  the  sun's  crimson 
As  to  Ocean  low  he  sped. 

Lucent  and  lovely 

It  stood  in  the  morning 
Under  a  trackless  hill; 

With  snows  eternal 

Muffling  its  summit, 
And  silence  ineffable. 

Sighing  of  solitude 
Winds  from  the  cold  heights 
Haunted  its  yellowing  stone; 
At  noon  its  shadow 
Stretched  athwart  cedars 
Whence  every  bird  was  flown. 

Its  stair  was  broken, 
Its  starlit  walls  were 
Fretted;  its  flowers  shone 
146 


TIME  PASSES 

Wide  at  the  portal, 

Full-blown  and  fading, 
Their  last  faint  fragrance  gone. 

And  on  high  in  its  lantern 
A  shape  of  the  living 
Watched  o'er  a  shoreless  sea, 
From  a  Tower  rotting 
With  age  and  weakness. 
Once  lovely  as  ivory. 


147 


BEWARE! 

An  ominous  bird  sang  from  its  branch, 

"  Beware,  0  Wanderer ! 
Night  'mid  her  flowers  of  glamourie  spilled 

Draws  swiftly  near: 

"  Night  with  her  darkened  caravans, 
Piled  deep  with  silver  and  myrrh, 

Draws  from  the  portals  of  the  East, 
0  Wanderer  near." 

Night  who  walks  plumed  through  the  fields 

Of  stars  that  strangely  stir  — 
Smitten  to  fire  by  the  sandals  of  him 

Who  walks  with  her." 


148 


THE  JOURNEY 

llEART-SICK  of  his  journey  was  the  Wanderer; 

Footsore  and  parched  was  he; 
And  a  Witch  who  long  had  lurked  by  the  wayside, 

Looked  out  of  sorcery. 

"  Lift  up  your  eyes,  you  lonely  Wanderer," 
She  peeped  from  her  casement  small; 

"  Here's  shelter  and  quiet  to  give  you  rest,  young 
man, 
And  apples  for  thirst  withal." 

And  he  looked  up  out  of  his  sad  reverie, 

And  saw  all  the  woods  in  green, 
With  birds  that  flitted  feathered  in  the  dappling, 

The  jewel-bright  leaves  between. 

And  he  lifted  up  his  face  towards  her  lattice, 

And  there,  alluring-wise. 
Slanting  through  the  silence  of  the  long  past, 

Dwelt  the  still  green  Witch's  eyes. 

And  vaguely  from  the  hiding-place  of  memory 

Voices  seemed  to  cry; 
"  What  is  the  darkness  of  one  brief  life-time 

To  the  deaths  thou  hast  made  us  die? 
149 


THE  LISTENERS:  1914 

"  Heed  not  the  words  of  the  Enchantress 

Wlio  would  us  still  betray!  " 
And  sad  with  the  echo  of  their  reproaches, 

Doubting,  he  turned  away. 

"  I  may  not  shelter  beneath  your  roof,  lady. 
Nor  in  this  wood's  green  shadow  seek  repose, 

Nor  will  your  apples  quench  the  thirst 
A  homesick  wanderer  knows." 

"'Homesick'  forsooth!"  she  softly  mocked  him: 

And  the  beauty  in  her  face 
Made  in  the  sunshine  pale  and  trembling 

A  stillness  in  that  place. 

And  he  sighed,  as  if  in  fear,  that  young  Wanderer, 

Looking  to  left  and  to  right. 
Where  the  endless  narrow  road  swept  onward, 

Till  in  distance  lost  to  sight. 

And  there  fell  upon  his  sense  the  brier, 

Haunting  the  air  with  its  breath, 
And  the  faint  shrill  sweetness  of  the  birds'  throats, 

Their  tent  of  leaves  beneath. 

And  there  was  the  Witch,  in  no  wise  heeding; 

Her  arbour,  and  fruit-filled  dish. 
Her  pitcher  of  well-water,  and  clear  damask  — 

All  that  the  weary  wish. 
150 


THE  JOURNEY 

And  the  last  gold  beam  across  the  green  world 

Faltered  and  failed,  as  he 
Remembered    his    solitude    and    the    dark    night's 

Inhospitality. 

And  he  looked  upon  the  Witch  with  eyes  of  sorrow 

In  the  darkening  of  the  day; 
And  turned  him  aside  into  oblivion; 

And  the  voices  died  away.  .  .  . 

And  the  Witch  stepped  down  from  her  casement: 

In  the  hush  of  night  he  heard 
The  calling  and  wailing  in  dewy  thicket 

Of  bird  to  hidden  bird. 

And  gloom  stole  all  her  burning  crimson, 

Remote  and  faint  in  space 
As  stars  in  gathering  shadow  of  the  evening 

Seemed  now  her  phantom  face. 

And  one  night's  rest  shall  be  a  myriad. 

Midst  dreams  that  come  and  go; 
Till  heedless  fate,  unmoved  by  weakness,  bring  him 

This  same  strange  by-way  through: 

To  the  beauty  of  earth  that  fades  in  ashes, 

The  lips  of  welcome,  and  the  eyes 
More  beauteous  than  the  feeble  shine  of  Hesper 

Lone  in  the  lightening  skies: 
151 


THE  LISTENERS:  1914 

Till  once  again  the  Witch's  guile  entreat  him; 

But,  worn  with  wisdom,  he 
Steadfast  and  cold  shall  choose  the  dark  night's 

Inhospitality. 


152 


HAUNTED 

IHE  rabbit  in  bis  burrow  keeps 
No  guarded  watch,  in  peace  he  sleeps; 
The  wolf  that  howls  in  challenging  night 
Cowers  to  her  lair  at  morning  light; 
The  simplest  bird  entwines  a  nest 
Where  she  may  lean  her  lovely  breast, 
Couched  in  the  silence  of  the  bough. 
But  thou,  0  man,  what  rest  hast  thou? 

Thy  emptiest  solitude  can  bring 
Only  a  subtler  questioning 
In  thy  divided  heart.     Thy  bed 
Recalls  at  dawn  what  midnight  said. 
Seek  how  thou  wilt  to  feign  content, 
Thy  flaming  ardour's  quickly  spent; 
Soon  thy  last  company  is  gone. 
And  leaves  thee — with  thyself  —  alone. 

Pomp  and  great  friends  may  hem  thee  round, 
A  thousand  busy  tasks  be  found; 
Earth's  thronging  beauties  may  beguile 
Thy  longing  lovesick  heart  awhile; 
And  pride,  like  clouds  of  sunset,  spread 
A  changing  glory  round  thy  head; 
153 


THE  LISTENERS:  1914 

But  fade  will  all;  and  thou  must  come, 
Hating  thy  journey,  homeless,  home. 

Rave  how  thou  wilt;  unmoved,  remote, 
That  inward  presence  slumbers  not. 
Frets  out  each  secret  from  thy  breast, 
Gives  thee  no  rally,  pause,  nor  rest. 
Scans  close  thy  very  thoughts,  lest  they 
Should  sap  his  patient  power  away, 
Answers  thy  wrath  with  peace,  thy  cry 
With  tenderest  taciturnity. 


154 


SILENCE 


With 


changeful  sound  life  beats  upon  the  ear; 
Yet,  striving  for  release, 
The  most  seductive  string's 
Sweet  jargonings. 
The  happiest  throat's 
Most  easeful,  lovely  notes 
Fall  back  into  a  veiling  silentness. 

Even  'mid  the  rimiour  of  a  moving  host, 
Blackening  the  clear  green  earth, 
Vainly  'gainst  that  thin  wall 
The  trumpets  call, 
Or  with  loud  hum 
The  smoke-bemuffled  drum: 
From  that  high  quietness  no  reply  comes  forth. 

When,  all  at  peace,  two  friends  at  ease  alone 
Talk  out  their  hearts, —  yet  still 
Between  the  grace-notes  of 
The  voice  of  love 
From  each  to  each 
Trembles  a  rarer  speech, 
And  with  its  presence  every  pause  doth  fill. 

155 


THE  LISTENERS:  1914 

Unmoved  it  broods,  this  all-encompassing  hush 
Of  one  who  stooping  near, 
No  smallest  stir  will  make 

Our  fear  to  wake; 

But  yet  intent 
Upon  some  mystery  bent 
Harkens  the  lightest  word  we  say,  or  hear. 


156 


WINTER  DUSK 

UARK  frost  was  in  the  air  without, 

The  dusk  was  still  with  cold  and  gloom. 

When  less  than  even  a  shadow  came 
And  stood  within  the  room. 

But  of  the  three  around  the  fire, 

None  turned  a  questioning  head  to  look, 
Still  read  a  clear  voice,  on  and  on, 
Still  stooped  they  o'er  their  book. 

The  children  watched  their  mother's  eyes 

Moving  on  softly  line  to  line; 
It  seemed  to  listen  too  —  that  shade. 
Yet  made  no  outward  sign. 

The  fire-flames  crooned  a  tiny  song. 

No  cold  wind  moved  the  wintry  tree; 
The  children  both  in  Faerie  dreamed 
Beside  their  mother's  knee. 

And  nearer  yet  that  spirit  drew 

Above  that  heedless  one,  intent 
Only  on  what  the  simple  words 
Of  her  small  story  meant. 
157 


THE  LISTENERS:  1914 

No  voiceless  sorrow  grieved  her  mind, 

No  memory  her  bosom  stirred, 
Nor  dreamed  she,  as  she  read  to  two, 
'Twas  surely  three  who  heard. 

Yet  when,  the  story  done,  she  smiled 
From  face  to  face,  serene  and  clear, 
A  love,  half  dread,  sprang  up,  as  she 
Leaned  close  and  drew  them  near. 


158 


THE  GHOST 

1  EACE  in  thy  hand?. 
Peace  in  thine  eyes. 
Peace  on  thy  brow; 
Flower  of  a  moment  in  the  eternal  hour, 
Peace  with  me  now. 

Not  a  wave  breaks. 
Not  a  bird  calls. 
My  heart,  like  a  sea. 
Silent  after  a  storm  that  hath  died, 
Sleeps  within  me. 

All  the  night's  dews. 
All  the  world's  leaves, 
All  winter's  snow 
Seem  with  their  quiet  to  have  stilled  in  life's  dream 
All  sorrowins  now. 


159 


AN  EPITAPH 

IX ERE  lies  a  most  beautiful  lady, 

Light  of  step  and  heart  was  she; 

I  think  she  was  the  most  beautiful  lady 

That  ever  was  in  the  West  Country. 

But  beauty  vanishes;  beauty  passes; 

However  rare  —  rare  it  be; 

And  when  I  crumble,  who  will  remember 

This  lady  of  the  West  Country? 


160 


"  THE  HAWTHORN  HATH  A  DEATHLY 
SMELL  " 

1  HE  flowers  of  the  field 

Have  a  sweet  smell ; 
Meadowsweet,  tansy,  th)Tne, 

And  faint-heart  pimpernel; 
But  sweeter  even  than  these, 

The  silver  of  the  may 
Wreathed  is  with  incense  for 

The  Judgment  Day. 

An  apple,  a  child,  dust, 

When  falls  the  evening  rain, 
Wild  brier's  spiced  leaves, 

Breathe  memories  again; 
With  further  memory  fraught. 

The  silver  of  the  may 
Wreathed  is  with  incense  for 

The  Judgment  Day. 

Eyes  of  all  loveliness  — 

Shadow  of  strange  delight. 
Even  as  a  flower  fades 

Must  thou  from  sight; 
But  oh,  o'er  thy  grave's  mound. 

Till  come  the  Judgment  Day, 
Wreatlied  shall  with  incense  be 

Thy  sharp-thorned  may. 
161 


MOTLEY:    1918 


THE  LITTLE  SALAMANDER 

TO   MARGOT 

When  I  go  free, 

I  think  'twill  be 

A  night  of  stars  and  snow, 

And  the  wild  fires  of  frost  shall  light 

My  footsteps  as  I  go; 

Nobody  —  nobody  will  be  there 

With  groping  touch,  or  sight, 

To  see  me  in  my  bush  of  hair 

Dance  burning  through  the  night. 


165 


THE  LINNET 

Upon  tins  leafy  bush 

With  thorns  and  roses  in  it, 
Flutters  a  thing  of  light, 

A  twittering  linnet. 
And  all  the  throbbing  world 

Of  dew  and  sun  and  air 
By  this  small  parcel  of  life 

Is  made  more  fair; 
As  if  each  bramble-spray 
And   mounded   gold-wreathed   furze, 

Harebell  and  little  thyme, 

Were  only  hers; 
As  if  this  beauty  and  grace 

Did  to  one  bird  belong, 
And,  at  a  flutter  of  wing. 

Might  vanish  in  song. 


166 


THE  SUNKEN  GARDEN 

OPEAK  not  —  whisper  not; 
Here  blowelh  thyme  and  bergamot; 
Softly  on  the  evening  hour, 
Secret  herbs  their  spices  shower. 
Dark-spiked  rosemary  and  myrrh, 
Lean-stalked,  purple  lavender; 
Hides  within  her  bosom,  too, 
All  her  sorrows,  bitter  rue. 

Breathe  not  —  trespass  not; 
Of  this  green  and  darkling  spot, 
Latticed  from  the  moon's  beams, 
Perchance  a  distant  dreamer  dreams; 
Perchance  upon  its  darkening  air, 
The  unseen  ghosts  of  children  fare, 
Faintly  swinging,  sway  and  sweep. 
Like  lovely  sea-flowers  in  its  deep; 
While,  unmoved,  to  watch  and  ward, 
Amid  its  gloomed  and  daisied  sward, 
Stands  with  bowed  and  dewy  head 
That  one  little  leaden  Lad. 


167 


THE  RIDDLERS 

Thou  solitary !  "  the  Blackbird  cried, 
"  I,  from  tlie  happy  Wren, 
Linnet  and  Blackcap,  Woodlark,  Thrush, 
Perched  all  upon  a  sweetbrier  bush, 
Have  come  at  cold  of  midnight-tide 
To  ask  thee,  Why  and  when 
Grief  smote  thy  heart  so  thou  dost  sing 
In  solemn  hush  of  evening, 
So  sorrowfully,  lovelorn  Thing  — 
Nay,  nay,  not  sing,  but  rave,  but  wail. 
Most  melancholic  Nightingale? 
Do  not  the  dews  of  darkness  steep 
All  pinings  of  the  day  in  sleep? 
Why,  then,  when  rocked  in  starry  nest 
We  mutely  couch,  secure,  at  rest. 
Doth  thy  lone  heart  delight  to  make 
Music  for  sorrow's  sake?  " 
A  Moon  was  there.     So  still  her  beam. 
It  seemed  the  whole  world  lay  in  dream, 
Lulled  by  the  watery  sea. 
And  from  her  leafy  night-hung  nook 
Upon  this  stranger  soft  did  look 
The  Nightingale:  sighed  he:  — 

"  'Tis  strange,  my  friend ;  the  Kingfisher 
But  yestermorn  conjured  me  here 
168 


THE  RIDDLERS 

Out  of  his  green  and  gold  to  say 

Why  thou,  in  splendour  of  the  noon, 

Wearest  of  colour  but  golden  ^^hoon, 

And  else  dost  thee  array 

In  a  most  sombre  suit  of  black? 

'  Surely,'  he  sighed,  '  some  load  of  grief, 

Past  all  our  thinking  —  and  belief  — 

Must  weigh  upon  his  back!  ' 

Do,  then,  in  turn,  tell  me.  If  joy 

Thy  heart  as  well  as  voice  employ 

Why  dost  thou  now  most  Sable,  shine 

In  plumage  woefuller  far  than  mine? 

Thy  silence  is  a  sadder  thing 

Than  any  dirge  I  sing!  " 

Thus,  then,  these  two  small  birds,  perched  there, 

Breathed  a  strange  riddle  both  did  share 

Yet  neither  could  expound. 

And  we  —  who  sing  but  as  we  can. 

In  the  small  knowledge  of  a  man  — 

Have  we  an  answer  found? 

Nay,  some  are  happy  whose  delight 

Is  hid  even  from  themselves  from  sight; 

And  some  win  peace  who  spend 

The  skill  of  words  to  sweeten  despair 

Of  finding  consolation  where 

Life  has  but  one  dark  end; 

Who,  in  rapt  solitude,  tell  o'er 

A  tale  as  lovely  as  forlore, 

Into  the  midnight  air. 

169 


MOONLIGHT 

1  HE  far  moon  maketh  lovers  wise 

In  her  pale  beauty  trembling  down, 
Lending  curved  cheeks,  dark  lips,  dark  eyes, 

A  strangeness  not  her  own. 
And,  though  they  shut  their  lids  to  kiss. 

In  starless  darkness  peace  to  win, 
Even  on  that  secret  world  from  this 

Her  twilight  enters  in. 


170 


THE  BLIND  BOY 

1  HAVE  no  master,"  said  the  Blind  Boy, 
"  My  mother, '  Dame  Venus  '  they  do  call; 
Cowled  in  this  hood  she  sent  me  begging 
For  whale 'er  in  pity  may  befall. 

"Hard  was  her  visage,  me  adjuring, — 
'Have  no  fond  mercy  on  the  kind! 

Here  be  sharp  arrows,  bunched  in  quiver. 
Draw  close  ere  striking  —  thou  art  blind.' 

"  So  stand  I  here,  my  woes  entreating, 
In  this  dark  alley,  lest  the  Moon 

Point  with  her  sparkling  my  barbed  armoury 
Shine  on  my  silver-laced  shoon. 

"Oh,  sir,  unkind  this  Dame  to  me-ward; 

Of  the  salt  billow  was  her  birth.  .  .  . 
In  your  sweet  charity  draw  nearer 

The  saddest  rogue  on  Earth!  " 


171 


THE  QUARRY 

X  OU  hunted  me  with  all  the  pack, 

Too  blind,  too  blind,  to  see 
By  no  wild  hope  of  force  or  greed 

Could  you  make  sure  of  me. 

And  like  a  phantom  through  the  glades, 

With  tender  breast  aglow, 
The  goddess  in  me  laughed  to  hear 

Your  horns  a-roving  go. 

She  laughed  to  think  no  mortal  ever 

By  dint  of  mortal  flesh 
The  very  Cause  that  was  the  Hunt 

One  moment  could  enmesh: 

That  though  with  captive  limbs  I  lay. 
Stilled  breath  and  vanquished  eyes. 

He  that  hunts  Love  with  horse  and  hound 
Hunts  out  his  heart  and  eyes. 


172 


MRS.  GRUNDY 

OTEP  very  softly,  sweet  Quiet-foot, 
Stumble  not,  whisper  not,  smile  not: 
By  this  dark  ivy  stoop  cheek  and  brow. 
Still  even  thy  heart!     What  seest  thou?  .  .  ." 

"  High-coifed,  broad-browed,  aged,  suave  yet  grim, 
A  large  flat  face,  eyes  keenly  dim. 
Staring  at  nothing  —  that's  me!  — and  yet, 
Witli  a  hate  one  could  never,  no,  never  forget  .  .  ." 

"  This  is  my  world,  my  garden,  my  home, 
Hither  my  father  bade  mother  to  come 
And  bear  me  out  of  the  dark  into  light. 
And  happy  I  was  in  her  tender  sight. 

"  And  then,  thou  frail  flower,  she  died  and  went, 
Forgetting  my  pitiless  banishment. 
And  that  Old  Woman  —  an  Aunt  —  she  said. 
Came  hither,  lodged,  fattened,  and  made  her  bed. 

"  Oh    yes,    tliou    most    blessed,    from    Monday   to 

Sunday, 
Has  lived  on  me,  preyed  on  me,  Mrs.  Grundy: 
Called  me,  '  dear  Nephew  ';  on  each  of  those  chairs 
Has  gloated  in  righteousness,  heard  my  prayers. 
173 


MOTLEY:  1918 

"  Why  didst  thou  dare  the  thorns  of  the  grove, 
Timidest  trespasser,  huntress  of  love? 
Now  thou  hast  peeped,  and  now  dost  know 
What  kind  of  creature  is  thine  for  foe. 

"  Not  that  she'll  tear  out  thy  innocent  eyesj 

Poison  thy  mouth  with  deviltries. 

Watch  thou,  wait  thou:  soon  will  begin 

The  guile  of  a  voice:  hark!  .  .  ."  "  Come  in,  Come 


m: 


I  " 


174 


THE  TRYST 

1^  LEE  into  some  forgotten  night  and  be 
Of  all  dark  long  my  moon-bright  company: 
Beyond  the  rumour  even  of  Paradise  come, 
There,  out  of  all  remembrance,  make  our  home: 
Seek  we  some  close  hid  shadow  for  our  lair. 
Hollowed  by  Noah's  mouse  beneath  the  chair 
Wherein  the  Omnipotent,  in  slumber  bound, 
Nods  till  the  piteous  Trump  of  Judgment  sound. 
Perchance  Leviathan  of  the  deep  sea 
Would  lease  a  lost  mermaiden's  grot  to  me. 
There  of  your  beauty  we  would  joyance  make  — 
A  music  wistful  for  the  sea-nymph's  sake: 
Haply  Elijah,  o'er  his  spokes  of  fire, 
Cresting  steep  Leo,  or  the  heavenly  Lyre, 
Spied,  tranced  in  azure  of  inanest  space, 
Some  eyrie  hostel,  meet  for  human  grace. 
Where  two  might  happy  be  —  just  you  and  I  — 
Lost  in  the  uttermost  of  Eternity. 
Think!  In  Time's  smallest  clock's  minutest  beat 
Might  there  not  rest  be  found  for  wandering  feet? 
Or,  'twixt  the  sleep  and  wake  of  Helen's  dream, 
Silence  wherein  to  sing  love's  requiem? 


175 


MOTLEY:  1918 


No,  no.     Nor  earth,  nor  air,  nor  fire,  nor  deep 
Could  lull  poor  mortal  longingness  asleep. 
Somewhere  there  Nothing  is;  and  there  lost  Man 
Shall  win  what  changeless  vague  of  peace  he  can. 


176 


ALONE 

1  HE  abode  of  the  nightingale  is  bare, 
Flowered  frost  congeals  in  the  gelid  air, 
The  fox  howls  from  his  frozen  lair: 

Alas,  my  loved  one  is  gone, 

I  am  alone: 

It  is  winter. 

Once  the  pink  cast  a  winy  smell, 

The  wild  bee  hung  in  the  hyacinth  bell. 

Light  in  effulgence  of  beauty  fell: 

Alas,  my  loved  one  is  gone, 

I  am  alone: 

It  is  winter. 

My  candle  a  silent  fire  doth  shed. 

Starry  Orion  hunts  o'erhead; 

Come  moth,  come  shadow,  the  world  is  dead: 

Alas,  my  loved  one  is  gone, 

I  am  alone: 

It  is  winter. 


177 


THE  EMPTY  HOUSE 

oEE  this  house,  how  dark  it  is 

Beneath  its  vast-boughed  trees! 

Not  one  trembling  leaflet  cries 

To  that  Watcher  in  the  skies  — 

"  Remove,  remove  thy  searching  gaze. 

Innocent,  of  heaven's  ways, 

Brood  not.  Moon,  so  wildly  bright, 

On  secrets  hidden  from  sight." 

"  Secrets,"  sighs  tlie  night-wind, 
"  Vacancy  is  all  I  find ; 
Every  keyhole  I  have  made 
Wails  a  summons,  faint  and  sad, 
No  voice  ever  answers  me. 

Only  vacancy." 
"  Once,  once  ..."  the  cricket  shrills. 
And  far  and  near  the  quiet  fills 
With  its  tiny  voice,  and  then 

Hush  falls  again. 

Mute  shadows  creeping  slow 
Mark  how  the  hours  go. 
Every  stone  is  mouldering  slow. 
And  the  least  winds  that  blow 
173 


THE  EMPTY  HOUSE 

Some  minutest  atom  shake, 

Some  fretting  ruin  make 

In  roof  and  walls.     How  black  it  is 

Beneath  these  thick-bouizhed  trees! 


179 


MISTRESS  FELL 

Vv  HOM  seek  you  here,  sweet  Mistress  Fell?  '  ■ 
"  One  who  loved  me  passing  well. 
Dark  his  eye,  wild  his  face  — 
Stranger,  if  in  this  lonely  place 
Bide  such  an  one,  then,  prythee,  say 
/  am  come  here  to-day." 

"  Many  his  like,  Mistress  Fell?  " 
"  I  did  not  look,  so  cannot  tell. 
Only  this  I  surely  know, 
When  his  voice  called  me,  I  must  go; 
Touched  me  his  fingers,  and  my  heart 
Leapt  at  the  sweet  pain's  smart." 

*'  Why  did  he  leave  you,  Mistress  Fell?  " 
"  Magic  laid  its  dreary  spell. — 
Stranger,  he  was  fast  asleep; 
Into  his  dream  I  tried  to  creep; 
Called  his  name,  soft  was  my  cry; 
He  answered  —  not  one  sigh. 

"  The  flower  and  the  thorn  are  here; 
Falleth  the  night-dew,  cold  and  clear; 
180 


MISTRESS  FELL 

Out  of  her  bower  the  bird  replies, 
Mocking  the  dark  with  ecstasies, 
See  how  the  earth's  green  grass  doth  grow, 
Praising  what  sleeps  below! 

"  Thus  have  they  told  me.     And  I  come, 
As  flies  the  wounded  wild-bird  home. 
Not  tears  I  give;  but  all  that  he 
Clasped  in  his  arms,  sweet  charity; 
All  that  he  loved  —  to  him  I  bring 
For  a  close  whispering." 


181 


THE  GHOST 

"Who  knocks?  "     "  I,  who  was  beautiful. 

Beyond  all  dreams  to  restore, 
I,  from  the  roots  of  the  dark  thorn  am  hither. 

And  knock  on  the  door." 

" "Who  speaks?  "     "I  —  once  was  my  speech 

Sweet  as  the  bird's  on  the  air, 
When  echo  lurks  by  the  waters  to  heed; 

'Tis  I  speak  thee  fair." 

"  Dark  is  the  hour!  "     "  Ay,  and  cold." 
"  Lone  is  my  house."     "  Ah,  but  mine?  " 

"  Sight,  touch,  lips,  eyes  yearned  in  vain." 
"Long  dead  these  to  thine  .  .  ." 

Silence.     Still  faint  on  the  porch 

Brake  the  flames  of  the  stars. 
In  gloom  groped  a  hope-wearied  hand 

Over  keys,  bolts,  and  bars. 

A  face  peered.     All  the  grey  night 

In  chaos  of  vacancy  shone; 
Nought  but  vast  sorrow  was  there — ■ 

The  sweet  cheat  gone. 
182 


THE  STRANGER 

In  the  woods  as  I  did  walk. 
Dappled  with  the  moon's  beam, 

I  did  with  a  Stranger  talk. 
And  his  name  was  Dream. 

Spurred  his  heel,  dark  his  cloak. 
Shady-wide  iiis  bonnet's  brim; 

His  horse  beneath  a  silvery  oak 
Grazed  as  I  talked  with  him. 

Softly  his  breast-brooch  burned  and  shone; 

Hill  and  deep  were  in  his  eyes; 
One  of  his  hands  held  mine,  and  one 

The  fruit  that  makes  men  wise. 

Wondrously  strange  was  earth  to  see, 
Flowers  white  as  milk  did  gleam; 

Spread  to  Heaven  the  Assyrian  Tree, 
Over  my  head  with  Dream. 

Dews  were  still  betwixt  us  twain; 

Stars  a  trembling  beauty  shed; 
Yet  —  not  a  whisper  comes  again 

Of  liie  words  he  said. 
183 


BETRAYAL 

OHE  will  not  die,  they  say, 
She  will  but  put  her  beauty  by 
And  hie  away. 

Oh,  but  her  beauty  gone,  how  lonely 
Then  will  seem  all  reverie. 
How  black  to  me! 

All  things  will  sad  be  made 
And  every  hope  a  memory, 
All  gladness  dead. 

Ghosts  of  the  past  will  know 
My  weakest  hour,  and  whisper  to  me, 
And  coldly  go. 

And  hers  in  deep  of  sleep, 
Clothed  in  its  mortal  beauty  I  shall  see, 
And,  waking,  weep. 

Naught  will  my  mind  then  find 
In  man's  false  Heaven  my  peace  to  be: 
All  blind,  and  blind. 


184 


THE  CAGE 

Winf  did  you  flutter  in  vain  hope,  poor  bird, 

Hard-pressed  in  your  small  cage  of  clay? 

'Twas  but  a  sweet,  false  echo  that  you  heard, 

Caught  only  a  feint  of  day. 

Still  is  the  night  all  dark,  a  homeless  dark. 

Burn    yet   the   unanswering   stars.     And   silence 
brings 
The   same   sea's   desolate   surge  —  sans   bound    or 
mark  — 

Of  all  your  wanderings. 

Fret  now  no  more;  be  still.     Those  steadfast  eyes, 
Those  folded  hands,  they  cannot  set  you  free; 

Only  with  beauty  wake  wild  memories  — 

Sorrow  for  where  you  are,  for  where  you  would 
be. 


185 


THE  REVENANT 

vJ  ALL  ye  fair  ladies  with  your  colours  and  your 
graces, 
And   your   eyes   clear    in    flame   of   candle   and 
hearth, 
Toward  the  dark  of  this  old  window  lift  not  up 
your  smiling,  faces, 
Where  a  Shade  stands  fo-rlorn  from  the  cold  of 
the  earth.  \ 

God  knows  I  could  not  rest  for  one  I  still  was 
thinking  of; 
Like  a  rose  sheathed  in  beauty  her  spirit  was  to 
me; 
Now  out  of  unforgottenness  a  bitter  draught  I'm 
drinking  of, 
'Tis  sad  of  such  beauty  unremembered  to  be. 

Men  all  all  shades,  0  Woman. —  Winds  wist  not 
of  the  way  they  blow. 
Apart  from  your  kindness,  life's  at  best  but  a 
snare. 
Though  a  tongue  now  past  praise  this  bitter  thing 
doth  say,  I  know 
What  solitude  means,  and  how,  homeless,  I  fare. 
186 


THE  REVENANT 

Strange,   strange,   are    ye   all  —  except    in    beauty 
shared  with  her  — 
Since  I  seek  one  I  loved,  yet  was  faithless  to  in 
death. 
Not  life  enough  I  heaped,  so  thus  my  heart  must 
fare  with  her. 
Now   wrapt   in   the  gross  clay,  bereft   of   life's 
breath. 


187 


MUSIC 

W  HEN  music  sounds,  gone  is  the  earth  I  know, 
And  all  her  lovely  things  even  lovelier  grow; 
Her  flowers  in  vision  flame,  her  forest  trees, 
Lift  burdened  branches,  stilled  with  ecstasies. 

When  music  sounds,  out  of  the  water  rise 
Naiads  whose  beauty  dims  my  waking  eyes, 
Rapt  in  strange  dreams  burns  each  enchanted  face, 
With  solemn  echoing  stirs  their  dwelling-place. 

When  music  sounds,  all  that  I  was  I  am 
Ere  to  this  haunt  of  brooding  dust  I  came; 
While  from  Time's  woods  break  into  distant  song 
The  swift-winged  hours,  as  I  hasten  along. 


188 


THE  REMONSTRANCE 

1  WAS  at  peace  until  you  came 
And  set  a  careless  mind  aflame. 
I  lived  in  quiet;  cold,  content; 
All  longing  in  safe  banishment. 
Until  your  ghostly  lips  and  eyes 
Made  wisdom  unwise. 

Naught  was  in  me  to  tempt  your  feet 
To  seek  a  lodging.     Quite  forgot 
Lay  the  sweet  solitude  we  two 
In  childhood  used  to  wander  through; 
Time's  cold  had  closed  my  heart  about; 
And  shut  you  out. 

Well,  and  what  then?  ...  0  vision  grave. 
Take  all  the  little  all  I  have! 
Strip  me  of  what  in  voiceless  thought 
Life's  kept  of  life,  unhoped,  unsought!  — 
Reverie  and  dream  that  memory  must 
Hide  deep  in  dust! 

This  only  I  say: — Though  cold  and  bare 
The  haunted  house  you  have  chosen  to  share, 
Still  'neath  its  walls  the  moonbeam  goes 
189 


MOTLEY:  1918 

And  trembles  on  the  un tended  rose; 
Still  o'er  its  broken  roof-tree  rise 
The  starry  arches  of  the  skies; 
And  in  your  lightest  word  shall  be 
The  thunder  of  an  ebbing  sea. 


190 


NOCTURNE 

lis  not  my  voice  now  speaks;  but  a  bird 
In  darkling  forest  hollows  a  sweet  throat  — 
Pleads  on  till  distant  echo  too  hath  heard 

And  doubles  every  note: 
So  love  diat  shrouded  dwells  in  mystery 

Would  cry  and  waken  thee. 

Thou  Solitary,  stir  in  thy  still  sleep; 
All  the  night  waits  thee,  yet  thou  still  dream'st  on. 
Furtive  the  shadows  that  about  thee  creep, 
And  cheat  the  shining  footsteps  of  the  moon: 
Unseal  thine  eyes,  it  is  my  heart  that  sings. 
And  beats  in  vain  its  wings. 

Lost  in  heaven's  vague,  the  stars  burn  softly  through 
The  world's  dark  lalticings,  we  prisoned  stray 
Within  its  lovely  labyrinth,  and  know 

Mute  seraphs  guard  the  way 
Even  from  silence  unto  speech,  from  love 
To  that  self's  self  it  still  is  dreaming  of. 


191 


THE  EXILE 


Y 


1  AIM  that  A(3am  who,  with  Snake  for  guest, 

Hid  anguished  eyes  upon  Eve's  piteous  breast. 

I  am  that  Adam  who,  with  broken  wings, 

Fled  from  the  Seraph's  brazen  trumpetings. 

Betrayed  and  fugitive,  I  still  must  roam 

A  world  where  sin,  and  beauty,  whisper  of  Home. 

Oh,  from  wide  circuit,  shall  at  length  I  see 
Pure  daybreak  lighten  again  on  Eden's  tree? 
Loosed  from  remorse  and  hope  and  love's  distress, 
Enrobe  me  again  in  my  lost  nakedness? 
No  more  with  wordless  grief  a  loved  one  grieve, 
But  to  Heaven's  nothingness  re-welcome  Eve? 


192 


THE  UNCHANGING 


Afj 


TER  the  songless  rose  of  evening, 

Night  quiet,  dark,  still. 
In  nodding  cavalcade  advancing 

Starred  the  deep  hill: 
You,  in  the  valley  standing, 

In  your  quiet  wonder  took 
All  that  glamour,  peace,  and  mystery 

In  one  grave  look. 
Beauty  hid  your  naked  body, 

Time  dreamed  in  your  bright  hair, 
In  your  eyes  the  constellations 

Burned  far  and  fair. 


193 


INVOCATION 

1  HE  burning  fire  shakes  in  the  night, 
On  high  her  silver  candles  gleam. 

With  far-flung  arms  enflamed  with  light, 
The  trees  are  lost  in  dream. 

Come  in  thy  beauty !  'tis  my  love, 
Lost  in  far-wandering  desire, 

Hath  in  the  darkling  deep  above 
Set  stars  and  kindled  fire. 


194 


EYES 

\J  STRANGE  devices  that  alone  divide 

The  seer  from  the  seen  — 

The  very  highway  of  earth's  pomp  and  pride 

That  lies  between 

The  traveller  and  the  cheating,  sweet  delight 

Of  where  he  longs  to  be, 

But  which,  bound  hand  and  foot,  he,  close  on  night, 

Can  only  see. 


195 


LIFE 

llEARKEN,  0  dear,  now  strikes  the  hour  we  die; 
We,  who  in  our  strange  kiss 
Have  proved  a  dream  the  world's  realities, 
Turned  each  from  other's  darkness  with  a  sigh, 
Need  heed  no  more  of  life,  waste  no  more  breath 
On  any  other  journey,  but  of  death. 

And  yet:  Oh,  know  we  well 

How  each  of  us  must  prove  Love's  infidel; 

Still  out  of  ecstasy  turn  trembling  back 

To  earth's  same  empty  track 

Of  leaden  day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour,  and  be 

Of  all  things  lovely  the  cold  mortuary. 


196 


THE  DISGUISE 

Why  in  my  heart,  0  Grief, 
Dost  thou  in  beauty  hide? 
Dead  is  my  well-content, 
And  buried  deep  my  pride. 
Cold  are  their  stones,  beloved, 
To  hand  and  side. 

The  shadows  of  even  are  gone. 
Shut  are  the  day's  clear  flowers, 
Now  have  her  birds  left  mule 
Their  singing  bowers, 
Lone  shall  we  be,  we  twain. 
In  the  night  hours. 

Thou  with  thy  cheek  on  mine, 
And  dark  hair  loosed,  shalt  see 
Take  the  far  stars  for  fruit 
The  cypress  tree. 
And  in  the  yew's  black 
Shall  the  moon  be. 

We  will  tell  no  old  tales. 
Nor  heed  if  in  wandering  air 
197 


MOTLEY:  191S 

Die  a  lost  song  of  love 
Or  the  once  fair; 
Still  as  well-water  be 
The  thoughts  we  share! 

And,  while  the  ghosts  keep 
Tryst  from  chill  sepulchres, 
Dreamless  our  gaze  shall  sleep, 
And  sealed  our  ears; 
Heart  unto  heart  will  speak. 
Without  tears. 

0,  thy  veiled,  lovely  face  — 
Joy's  strange  disguise  — 
Shall  be  the  last  to  fade 
From  these  rapt  eyes, 
Ere  the  first  dart  of  daybreak 
Pierce  the  skies. 


198 


VAIN  QUESTIONING 

W  HAT  needest  thou?  —  a  few  brief  hours  of  rest 
Wherein  to  seek  thyself  in  thine  own  breast; 
A  transient  silence  wherein  truth  could  say 
Such  was  thy  constant  hope,  and  this  thy  way?  — 
0  burden  of  life  that  is 
A  livelong  tangle  of  perplexities! 

What  seekest  thou? — a  truce  from  that  thou  art; 

Some  steadfast  refuge  from  a  fickle  heart; 

Still  to  be  thou,  and  yet  no  thing  of  scorn, 

To  find  no  stay  here,  and  yet  not  forlorn?  — 
0  riddle  of  life  that  is 
An  endless  war  'twixt  contrarieties. 

Leave  this  vain  questioning.     Is  not  sweet  the  rose? 
Sings  not  the  wild  bird  ere  to  rest  he  goes? 
Hatli  not  in  miracle  brave  June  returned? 
Burns  not  her  beauty  as  of  old  it  burned? 

0  foolish  one  to  roam 

So  far  in  thine  own  mind  away  from  home! 

Where  blooms  the  flower  when  her  petals  fade, 
Where  sleepeth  echo  by  earth's  music  made, 
WTiere  all  things  transient  to  the  changeless  win, 
There  waits  the  peace  thy  spirit  dwelleth  in. 
199 


VIGIL 

Dark  is  the  night. 

The  fire  burns  faint  and  low, 
Hours  —  days  —  years, 

Into  grey  as'hes  go; 
I  strive  to  read. 

But  sombre  is  the  glow. 

Thumbed  are  the  pages. 
And  the  print  is  small; 

Mocking  the  winds 

That  from  the  darkness  call; 

Feeble  the  fire  that  lends 
Its  light  withal. 

0  ghost,  draw  nearer; 

Let  thy  shadowy  hair, 
Blot  out  the  pages 

That  we  cannot  share; 
Be  ours  the  one  last  leaf 

By  Fate  left  bare! 

Let's  Finis  scrawl. 

And  then  Life's  book  put  by; 
Turn  each  to  each 

In  all  simplicity: 
Ere  the  last  flame  is  gone 

To  warm  us  by. 
200 


THE  OLD  MEN 


0 


LD  and  alone,  sit  we, 
Caged,  riddle-rid  men; 
Lost  to  Earth's  "  Listen!  "  and  "  See!  " 
Thought's  "  Wherefore?  "  and  "  Wlien?  " 

Only  far  memories  stray 

Of  a  past  once  lovely,  but  now 

Wasted  and  faded  away, 

Like  green  leaves  from  the  bough. 

Vast  broods  the  silence  of  night, 

The  ruinous  moon 
Lifts  on  our  faces  her  light, 

Whence  all  dreaming  is  gone. 

We  speak  not;  trembles  each  head; 

In  their  sockets  our  eyes  are  still; 
Desire  as  cold  as  the  dead; 

Without  wonder  or  will. 
And  One,  with  a  lanthorn,  draws  near, 

At  clash  with  the  moon  in  our  eyes: 
"  Where  art  Uiou?  "  he  asks:  "  I  am  here," 

One  by  one  we  arise. 

And  none  lifts  a  hand  to  withhold 
A  friend  from  the  touch  of  that  foe: 

Heart  cries  unto  heart,  "Thou  art  old!  " 
Yet,  reluctant,  we  go. 
201 


THE  DREAMER 

\J  THOU  who  giving  helm  and  sword, 

Gav'st,  too,  the  rusting  rain, 
And  starry  dark's  all  tender  dews 
To  blunt  and  stain: 

Out  of  the  battle  I  am  sped, 

Unharmed,  yet  stricken  sore; 
A  living  shape  amid  whispering  shades 
On  Lethe's  shore. 

No  trophy  in  my  hands  I  bring. 

To  this  sad,  sighing  stream, 
The  neighings  and  the  trumps  and  cries 
Were  but  a  dream. 

Traitor  to  life,  of  life  betrayed: 

0,  of  thy  mercy  deep, 
A  dream  my  all,  the  all  I  ask 
Is  sleep. 


202 


MOTLEY 

dOME,  Death,  I'd  have  a  word  with  thee; 

And  thou,  poor  Innocency; 

And  love  —  a  Lad  with  broken  wing; 

And  Pity,  too: 

The  Fool  shall  sing  to  you, 

As  Fools  will  sing. 

Ay,  music  hath  small  sense. 

And  a  tune's  soon  told. 

And  Earth  is  old, 

And  my  poor  wits  are  dense; 

Yet  have  I  secrets, —  dark,  my  dear. 

To  breathe  you  all:  Come  near. 

And  lest  some  hideous  listener  tells, 

I'll  ring  my  bells. 

They  are  all  at  war!  — 
Yes,  yes,  their  bodies  go 
'Neath  burning  sun  and  icy  star 
To  chaunted  songs  of  woe. 
Dragging  cold  cannon  through  a  mire 
Of  rain  and  blood  and  spouting  fire, 
The  new  moon  glinting  hard  on  eyes 
Wide  with  insanities! 

203 


MOTLEY:  1918 

Hush!  ...  I  use  words 

I  hardly  know  the  meaning  of; 

And  the  mute  birds 

Are  glancing  at  Love 

From  out  their  shade  of  leaf  and  flower. 

Trembling  at  treacheries 

Which  even  in  noonday  cower. 

Heed,  heed  not  what  I  said 

Of  frenzied  hosts  of  men. 

More  fools  than  I, 

On  envy,  hatred  fed, 

Who  kill,  and  die  — 

Spake  I  not  plainly,  then? 

Yet  Pity  whispered,  "Why?" 

Thou  silly  thing,  off  to  thy  daisies  go. 

Mine  was  not  news  for  child  to  know. 

And  Death  —  no  ears  hath.     He  hath  supped  where 

creep 
Eyeless  worms  in  hush  of  sleep; 
Yet,  when  he  smiles,  the  hand  he  draws 
Athwart  his  grinning  jaws  — 

Faintly  the  thin  bones  rattle,  and  —  There,  there; 
Hearken  how  my  bells  in  the  air 
Drive  away  care!  .  .  . 

Nay,  but  a  dream  I  had 
Of  a  world  all  mad. 
Not  simply  happy  mad  like  me, 
Who  am  mad  like  an  empty  scene 
204 


MOTLEY 

Of  water  and  willow  tree, 

Where  the  wind  hath  been; 

Bui  that  foul  Satan-mad, 

Who  rols  in  his  own  head. 

And  counts  the  dead. 

Not  honest  one  —  and  two  — 

But  for  the  ghosts  they  were, 

Brave,  faithful,  true. 

When,  liead  in  air. 

In  Earth's  clear  green  and  blue 

Heaven  they  did  share 

With  beauty  who  bade  them  there.  .  •  . 

There,  now !     Death  goes  — 

Mayhap  I've  wearied  him. 

Ay,  and  the  light  dolli  dim. 

And  asleep's  the  rose. 

And  tired  Innocence 

In  dreams  is  hence.  .  .  . 

Come,  Love,  my  lad. 

Nodding  that  drowsy  head, 

'Tis  time  thy  prayers  were  said! 


205 


THE  MARIONETTES 

J_jET  the  foul  Scene  proceed: 
There's  laughter  in  the  wings; 

'Tis  sawdust  that  they  bleed, 
But  a  box  Death  brings. 

How  rare  a  skill  is  theirs 

These  extreme  pangs  to  show, 

How  real  a  frenzy  wears 
Each  feigner  of  woe! 

Gigantic  dins  uprise! 

Even  the  gods  must  feel 
A  smarting  of  the  eyes 

As  these  fumes  upsweal. 

Strange,  such  a  Piece  is  free, 
While  we  Spectators  sit, 

Aghast  at  its  agony, 
Yet  absorbed  in  it! 

Dark  is  the  outer  air. 

Cold  the  night  draughts  blow 
Mutely  we  stare,  and  stare 

At  the  frenzied  Show. 
206 


THE  MARIONETTES 

Yet  heaven  hath  its  quiet  shroud 
Of  deep,  immutable  blue  — 

We  cry  "  An  end !  "     We  are  bowed 
By  the  dread,  "  Tis  true!  " 

While  the  Shape  who  hoofs  applause 

Behind  our  deafened  ear, 
Hoots  —  angel-wise  —  "  the  Cause!  " 

And  affright  even  fear. 


207 


TO  E.  T.  :  1917 

1  OU  sleep  too  well  —  too  far  away, 
For  sorrowing  word  to  soothe  or  wound; 

Your  very  quiet  seems  to  say 

How  longed-for  a  peace  you  have  found. 

Else,  had  not  death  so  lured  you  on. 

You  would  have  grieved  —  'twixt  joy  and  fear 

To  know  how  my  small  loving  son 
Had  wept  for  you,  my  dear. 


208 


APRIL  MOON 

1\0SES  are  sweet  to  smell  and  see, 

And  lilies  on  the  stem; 
But  rarer,  stranger  buds  there  be, 

And  siie  was  like  to  them. 

The  little  moon  that  April  brings, 
More  lovely  shade  than  lij^'ht. 

That,  setting,  silvers  lonely  hills 
Upon  the  rerge  of  night  — 

Close  to  the  world  of  my  poor  heart 
So  stole  she,  still  and  clear; 

Now  that  she's  gone,  0  dark,  and  dark, 
The  solitude,  the  fear. 


209 


THE  FOOL'S  SONG 

IN  EVER,  no  never,  listen  too  long, 
To  the  chattering  wind  in  the  willow,  the  night 
bird's  song. 

'Tis  sad  in  sooth  to  lie  under  the  grass, 
But  none  too   gladsome  to  wake  and  grow  cold 
where  life's  shadows  pass. 

Dumb  the  old  Toll-Woman  squats, 
And,   for  every  green  copper  battered  and  worn, 
doles  out  Nevers  and  Nots. 

I  know  a  Blind  Man,  too, 
Who  with  a  sharp  ear  listens  and  listens  the  whole 
world  through. 

Oh,  sit  we  snug  to  our  feast. 
With   platter    and    finger   and   spoon  —  and   good 
victuals  at  least. 


210 


CLEAR  EYES 

v-iLEAR  eyes  do  dim  at  last, 
And  cheeks  outlive  their  rose. 

Time,  heedless  of  the  past, 
No  loving-kindness  knows; 

Chill  unto  mortal  lip 
Still  Lethe  flows. 

Griefs,  too,  but  brief  while  stay, 
And  sorrow,  being  o'er. 

Its  salt  tears  shed  away, 

Woundeth  the  heart  no  more. 

Stealthily  lave  those  waters 
That  solemn  shore. 

Ah,  then,  sweet  face  burn  on. 
While  yet  quick  memory  lives! 

And  Sorrow,  ere  thou  art  gone. 
Know  that  my  heart  forgives  — • 

Ere  yet,  grown  cold  in  peace. 
It  loves  not,  nor  grieves. 


211 


DUST  TO  DUST 

Heavenly  Archer,  bend  thy  bow; 
Now  the  flame  of  life  burns  low, 
Youth  is  gone;  I,  too,  would  go. 

Even  Fortune  leads  to  this: 
Harsh  or  kind,  at  last  she  is 
Murderess  of  all  ecstasies. 

Yet  the  spirit,  dark,  alone. 
Bound  in  sense,  still  hearkens  on 
For  tidings  of  a  bliss  foregone. 

Sleep  is  well  for  dreamless  head. 
At  no  breath  astonished. 
From  the  Gardens  of  the  Dead. 

I  the  immortal  harps  hear  ring, 
By  Babylon's  river  languishing. 
Heavenly  Archer,  loose  thy  string. 


212 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS 

r  AR  are  those  tranquil  hills, 

Dyed  with  fair  evening's  rose; 
On  urgent,  secret  errand  bent, 
A  traveller  goes. 

Approach  him  strangers  three, 

Barefooted,  cowled;  their  eyes 
Scan  the  lone,  hastening  solitary 
With  dumb  surmise. 

One  instant  in  close  speech 

With  them  he  doth  confer: 
God-sped,  he  hasteneth  on. 

That  anxious  traveller  .  .  . 

I  was  that  man  —  in  a  dream: 

And  each  world's  night  in  vain 
I  patient  wait  on  sleep  to  unveil 
Those  vivid  hills  again. 

Would  that  they  three  could  know 

How  yet  burns  on  in  me 
Love  —  from  one  lost  in  Paradise  — 
For  their  grave  courtesy. 
213 


ALEXANDER 

It  was  the  Great  Alexander, 
Capped  with  a  golden  helm, 
Sate  in  the  ages,  in  his  floating  ship. 
In  a  dead  calm. 

Voices  of  sea-maids  singing 

Wandered  across  the  deep: 
The  sailors  labouring  on  their  oars 
Rowed,  as  in  sleep. 

All  the  high  pomp  of  Asia, 

Charmed  by  that  siren  lay, 
Out  of  their  weary  and  dreaming  minds, 
Faded  away. 

Like  a  bold  boy  sate  their  Captain, 
His  glamour  withered  and  gone. 
In  the  souls  of  his  brooding  mariners, 
While  the  song  pined  on. 

Time,  like  a  falling  dew, 

Life,  like  the  scene  of  a  dream, 
Laid  between  slumber  and  slumber. 
Only  did  seem.  .  .  . 
214 


ALEXANDER 

O  Alexander,  then, 

In  all  us  mortals  too, 
Wax  thou  not  bold  —  too  bold 
On  the  wave  dark-blue! 


Come  the  calm,  infinite  night. 

Who  then  will  hear 
Aught  save  the  singing 

Of  the  sea-maids  clear? 


215 


THE  REAWAKENING 

VjREEN  in  light  are  the  hills,  and  a  calm  wind 
flowing 
Filleth  the  void  with  a  flood  of  the  fragrance  of 
Spring; 
Wings  in  this  mansion  of  life  are  coming  and  going. 
Voices  of  unseen  loveliness  carol  and  sing. 

Coloured  with  buds  of  delight  the  boughs  are  sway- 
ing, 
Beauty  walks  in  the  woods,  and  wherever  she  rove 
Flowers  from  wintry  sleep,  her  enchantment  obey- 
ing, 
Stir  in  the  deep  of  her  dream,  reawaken  to  love. 

Oh,  now  begone  sullen  care  —  this  light  is  my  see- 
ing; 
I  am  the  palace,  and  mine  are  its  windows  and 
walls; 
Daybreak  is  come,  and  life  from  the  darkness  of 
being 
Springs,  like  a  child  from  the  womb,  when  the 
lonely  one  calls. 


216 


THE  VACANT  DAY 

A.S  I  did  walk  in  meadows  preen 
I  heard  the  summer  noon  resound 

With  call  of  myriad  things  unseen 

That  leapt  and  crept  upon  the  ground. 

High  overhead  the  windless  air 

Throbbed  with  the  homesick  coursing  cry 
Of  swallows  that  did  everywhere 

Wake  echo  in  the  sky. 

Beside  me,  too,  clear  waters  coursed 
Which  willow  branches,  lapsing  low, 

Breaking  their  crystal  gliding  forced 
To  sing  as  they  did  flow. 

I  listened;  and  my  heart  was  dumb 
With  praise  no  language  could  express; 

Longing  in  vain  for  him  to  come 
Who  had  breathed  such  blessedness 

On  this  fair  world,  wherein  we  pass 
So  chequered  and  so  brief  a  stay; 

And  yearned  in  spirit  to  learn,  alas, 
What  kept  him  still  away. 
217 


THE  FLIGHT 

llOW  do  the  days  press  on,  and  lay 
Their  fallen  locks  at  evening  down, 
Whileas  the  stars  in  darkness  play 

And  moonbeams  weave  a  crown  — 

A  crown  of  flower-like  light  in  heaven, 

Where  in  the  hollow  arch  of  space 
Morn's  mistress  dreams,  and  the  Pleiads  seven 
Stand  watch  about  her  place. 

Stand  watch  —  O  days  no  number  keep 
Of  hours  when  this  dark  clay  is  blind. 
When  the  world's  clocks  are  dumb  in  sleep 
'Tis  then  I  seek  my  kind. 


218 


FOR  ALL  THE  GRIEF 

For  all  the  grief  I  have  given  with  words 

May  now  a  few  clear  flowers  blow, 
In  the  dust,  and  the  heat,  and  the  silence  of  birds. 
Where  the  lonely  go. 

For  the  thing  unsaid  that  heart  asked  of  me 

Be  a  dark,  cool  water  calling  —  calling 
To  the  footsore,  benighted,  solitary, 

When  the  shadows  are  falling. 

0,  be  beauty  for  all  my  blindness, 

A  moon  in  the  air  where  the  weary  wend, 
And  dews  burdened  with  loving-kindness 
In  the  dark  of  the  end. 


219 


THE  SCRIBE    X 

What  lovely  things 

Thy  hand  hath  made: 
The  smooth-plumed  bird 

In  its  emerald  shade, 
The  seed  of  the  grass, 

The  speck  of  stone 
Which  the  wayfaring  ant 

Stirs  —  and  hastes  on! 

Though  I  should  sit 

By  some  tarn  in  thy  hills. 
Using  its  ink 

As  the  spirit  wills 
To  write  of  Earth's  wonders, 

Its  live,  willed  things. 
Flit  would  the  ages 

On  soundless  wings. 
Ere  unto  Z 

My  pen  drew  nigh; 
Leviathan  told, 

And  the  honey-fly: 
And  still  would  remain 

My  wit  to  try  — 
220 


THE  SCRIBE 

My  worn  reeds  broken, 
The  dark  tarn  dry, 

AH  words  forgotten  — 
Thou,  Lord,  and  I. 


221 


FARE  WELL 

W  HEN  I  lie  where  shades  of  darkness 
Shall  no  more  assail  mine  eyes, 
Nor  the  rain  make  lamentation 

When  the  wind  sighs; 
How  will  fare  the  world  whose  wonder 
Was  the  very  proof  of  me? 
Memory  fades,  must  the  rememhered 

Perishing  be? 

Oh,  when  this  my  dust  surrenders 
Hand,  foot,  lip,  to  dust  again. 
May  these  loved  and  loving  faces 

Please  other  men! 
May  the  rustling  harvest  hedgerow 
Still  the  Traveller's  Joy  entwine. 
And  as  happy  children  gather 

Posies  once  miae. 

Look  thy  last  on  all  things  lovely. 

Every  hour.     Let  no  night 

Seal  thy  sense  in  deathly  slumber 

Till  to  delight 
Thou  have  paid  thy  utmost  blessing; 
Since  that  all  things  thou  wouldst  praise 
Beauty  took  from  those  who  loved  them 

In  other  days. 

222 


L  OOb  cij/'  U44  ^ 

UC.  SdllTHHi.    !J[,  . 


AA    000  370  782 


